


One's Place

by CallmeIsmail



Category: Ala ad-Din | Aladdin (Fairy Tale), Aladdin (2019)
Genre: Agrabah (Disney), Alpha and Omega bodies described in detail, Alpha/Omega, Djinni & Genies, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I imagine them, M/M, Multi, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 18:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20068942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallmeIsmail/pseuds/CallmeIsmail
Summary: This story revolves around the lives of Princess Jasmine of Agrabah, an alpha female, the street rat Aladdin, an alpha, and the grooming omega male Grand Vizier, Jafar. It is a story that merges their life paths, much like the movie, but that tries to explore sex and gender based roles of society through the lens of the metaphoric world of Alpha/Omega dynamics. It's a story about power, love and morality, that ties three people together. Hopefully for the best.





	1. Hermaphrodite

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, so please be patient with me. Any suggestions, corrections or comments are happily welcomed. Please enjoy your reading!

In Greek mythology and religion Hermaphroditus is the son of Hermes and Aphrodites who, after being sexually assaulted by the nymph Salmacis in the fountain that takes her name, merges with the Naiad and turns into a being half man and half woman.

Stricken by his misery, he makes a plea to his divine parents: whoever bathes in the spring of his disgraces shall turn into an effeminate being.

This is how nowadays in Agrabah they explain the existence of alpha females and omega men, attributing their gender ambivalence to a time in which, as historians suggest, the designation of alpha and omega still did not occur yet.

Surely a funny contradiction to have those terms deriving from the Greek language then.

This is the story you are about to hear: Men are usually alpha and women are almost always omega, Alphas predominate and omegas obey, alphas marry omegas, alphas are guardians and owners of omegas.

If most of the omegas are women and the great majority of alphas are men, wouldn’t the conclusion be that men are appointed to women’s well being, safety and – last but not least – ownership? That is as the law dictates, carved into stone and the iron of the warriors’ blades since immemorial times, formulated by a group of sages, all alphas, all men.

Sure, they adduce to their argument of predominance that omegas are too unpredictable, moody and the heats are nothing less nor nothing more than the proof that they need to be supervised and admonished. What better guardian could there be than the ones taking care of them during heats? The ones that provide omegas with their greatest task and gift, the joy of their life: a baby.

Surely there would be no better keepers than alphas.

Their strength and calmness matches perfectly with omegas’ moodiness and sensitivity.

Opposites do attract, so they can form a whole.

That is at least what Jasmine has been told her entire life; she was prepared, under the loving care of her nannies, alongside with her father’s straightforwardness and diligence to the old laws, to the moment in which a strong alpha would come to court her and marry her into submission.

A beautiful doll to a handsome alpha, ready to give birth to his heirs.

However, when the time came for her to present, it was not what her parents were expecting: Jasmine, the daughter of the Great Sultan of Agrabah and the princess of Shirabad, the light of the kingdom which irradiated beauty to all its neighbouring countries, the doll they spent so many years to train as a good wife, the example for all the omegas to look up to, was none other than an alpha.


	2. The Hermaphrodites at Agrabah’s court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Aladdin listened carefully to her words, unsure of what to say but determined to at least try to understand. “You will call me a fool but observing her has taught me something about life: all these roles people put us into, the role of a woman - an omega, a wife - a commoner, a prince, a priest, they are nothing more but made up by humans. There is no natural designation, no natural behavior. The princess is no different than the girls who live by the market place, nor the soldiers who station outside Agrabah’s gates to keep it safe and I too…” she paused, sadness filling her voice and clouding her eyes, “Sometimes all of this makes me feel..”, “Trapped” said Aladdin, “Like you can’t escape what you were born into.” -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the chapter is divided into three parts and it basically follows the beginning of the movie, with Jasmine and Aladdin's meeting (a little bit altered) plus an explicit sex scene between Jafar and an original character I created, named Zumurrud, and ends with the arrival of Prince Anders. I didn't think I would edit the tags so soon but the sex scene (even though not much of it is described) includes description of Jafar's omegan genitalia, so I thought I should at least warn you guys. But there it is, the new chapter, hope you enjoy it.

She gazed through the red curtains of his makeshift abode like she had never seen Agrabah before; Aladdin could only delineate her back from where he was standing, preparing tea for the both of them - a familiar gesture he had learned to forget over the years, unused to the company of well-meaning humans - but it was like he could see Dalia’s face (that was the girl’s name, a thing that he learned after they both fled from the bazaar excited just as much as little children running away from their unfortunate victim next to a prank), like he could take in her features full of wonder and joy.

It had been a long time since he witnessed somebody show happiness for such a trivial matter like the landscape of a port city and it warmed his heart.

To be fair, the girl herself seemed to be able to give him goosebumps just by looking at him. So of course she turned, a big smile plastered on her lips, black eyes as vivid and cheerful as those of a baby, and spoke to him:

“Is this where you live? Do you see this every morning?”

Aladdin looked at her, took in her sincere joy and thought he had never seen something more beautiful.

He tried to ignore the crazy pace of his heartbeat and settled on offering her mint tea, while trying not to stutter whilst replying to her question.

“Yes, you know, as you can see this is not a palace but the view makes up for it.”

A squeaky cry interrupted their chattering so that they could turn towards Abu, Aladdin’s monkey, that had been climbing up and down his friend’s furniture for the entire conversation, only to make a cry of protest at his master’s statement over their shared home.

Aladdin gave a big laugh and turned to look at a very much confused Dalia, who still sported her smile in an effort to be polite.

“Pardon me, my dear guest, it’s just that my friend right there doesn’t agree with my opinion. He surely wants a bigger house. Poor me, the one I found him isn’t enough.”

  
“I think it is amazing” Dalia replied, with her warm, soothing voice.

Her plump pink lips were curved into a smile and Aladdin found himself wishing for the time to stop in that moment, so they could stay like that. It was at that point that Aladdin realized he kept staring at her and, a little embarrassed, he continued their conversation.

“So, you said you mentioned that you serve at Agrabah’s court. How is being a handmaiden for the infamous alpha princess like?” he took a sip of his own tea and noticed Dalia’s smile drop from her face, a look of disappointment replacing their previous talk.

“Why infamous, you say? What opinion lives of Princess Jasmine outside of the palace, through the streets of her kingdom? Is she regarded as a monster?”

Aladdin almost chocked with tea hearing that question and after a brief cough he settled to answer as quick as a fox.

“No, no! This is not what I meant. The people love her, they wish to know her, especially after what happened to the Queen. They are just wondering what a female alpha looks like. You know, how she behaves and stuff. After all, it is an unusual fact for a woman to be an alpha.”

Dalia looked vexed to say the least, she sipped on her tea and whispered something between her lips and her glass.

“I’m sorry”, said Aladdin, “I didn’t mean to offend you, nor the princess, I was just trying to learn something more about your world. But I see this is a very delicate question to you, I’ve been too straightforward, I apologize.”

She sighed.

“You don’t need to apologize,” the black haired girl replied, “I understand that people would be confused. After all, the Sultan himself does not know how to act regarding the princess’ designation, but truly, she is tired to be regarded as a freak of nature, an incomplete woman that he’s trying to marry off. I’ve spoken to her quite a bit, sometimes she feels like nobody cares about her, or what she thinks.”

At that she paused, turned to look at the window, handed Aladdin her glass of tea and climbed over the stairs once again, taking in the sight of the lute laying on the dusty floor.

She went to pick it up, before remembering she was in someone else’s home apparently, stammered, and inquired Aladdin: “May I play this?” this time it was her who searched for his eyes and the melancholy that was in them was able to reach his soul, somehow.

“Sure thing, it’s an old instrument, but I think it still works fine.”

He climbed the stairs with his cup of tea, Abu in tow, and stopped just in the middle of them, dustied off one of the steps and sat down, waiting for the girl to start playing.

After she adjusted the cords and set the tune, Dalia engaged in a beautiful performance, characterized by the melancholic melody of an old time lullaby, one Aladdin’s mother used to sing to him, while his father, a travelling musician, went after the beat, playing with his instrument. It brought back good memories, but also a lot of sadness.

They stayed like that for a couple of instants, taking in the quietness which this former and decadent lighthouse could give them, sheltering them from the loud business of the Kasbah downstairs. Or maybe it was thanks to their own minds.

“It’s hard to be a woman.” Dalia said after ending her piece, “but the princess feels it is even harder for a female alpha to exist. Nobody knows how to treat her. Alphas are supposed to be men so how should she behave? As a woman, an omega? Or not be ashamed of her designation and take the role of an alpha, a man?”

Aladdin listened carefully to her words, unsure of what to say but determined to at least try to understand.

“You will call me a fool but observing her has taught me something about life: all these roles people put us into, the role of a woman - an omega, a wife - a commoner, a prince, a priest, they are nothing more but made up by humans. There is no natural designation, no natural behavior. The princess is no different than the girls who live by the market place, nor the soldiers who station outside Agrabah’s gates to keep it safe and I too…” she paused, sadness filling her voice and clouding her eyes, “Sometimes all of this makes me feel..”

“Trapped” said Aladdin, “Like you can’t escape what you were born into.”

She directed her gaze towards him, and he did the same.

For the very first time in their lives, they both felt like somebody understood them. Truly, Aristotle is not to be forgotten: A friend is none other than the mirror of your own soul.

“You know, Dalia, I do not know how it is for you at the Palace. To me, just being in the presence of such opulence would feel like a dream come true. It is not easy for me to live daily by the streets, only a monkey to keep me company” at that Abu gave a squeak of protest, indignant of the low consideration Aladdin suggested of him, “… even though it’s the best monkey in the world, that I wouldn’t trade with anything and anybody. But there it is, I also dream of running, to escape this condition I was born into.”

He wet his lips with a sip of tea and carried on, laughed between himself and said with a big smile, “Maybe become a prince”.

At that Dalia burst into laughter and carried on, “You’re lucky, at least you’re an alpha as you should be. I shall become your advisor and tell you when you do shit”.

Aladdin’s smile widened at her happiness.

“I quite doubt that, Miss Handmaiden. You speak with great consideration of the Princess, I don’t think you would ever leave her side. She is lucky to have a friend like you.”

At that Dalia took his unoccupied hand and squeezed it between both of hers,

“And I’m lucky to have made a friend today down the streets of Agrabah.”

͋͋͋  
The Grand Vizier’s chambers were not, as one may assume, a comfortable alcove.

The opulence of the Palace and the detailed care that the Sultan’s second in command put into the quarters of his own study did not find resemblance in any part of Jafar’s bed chambers.

They weren’t dismissed, but he certainly didn’t put a lot of effort into taking care of them.

After all, Jafar spent most of his time outside of them, much preferring his study or that of the Sultan, a place he had dreamed to wipe out of the building for such a long time. Furniture was scarce: a couple of drawers, a coffee table, a bookcase and, at the end of the room, attached to the wall, there was a king size bed, something befitting the rank of the most important politician of the kingdom.

Jafar laid upon it, cooed by the soft, decorated fabrics of the bedsheets while Zumurrud, a courtesan of the royal entourage, busied herself with the task of riding the Grand Vizier’s dick.

It was not the first time Jafar had asked for the Chinese girl, as everybody who had ever experienced the ‘benefits’ that a court of women could provide between the rooms of the royal Palace of Agrabah used to call her.

She was a lively person, often if not most of the time arrogant and brash, but also discreet; she knew what her place was, what role she was supposed to partake in life and did not step out of it. Well, at least not in front of people she didn’t know.

That said, she had taken a liking into sucking his cock, and that didn’t hurt. After all, reasons stated above aside, Zumurrud was also one of the few courtesans that was willing (more than willing, if you asked Jafar; she certainly appeared to enjoy his company and their ‘sessions’ pretty much) to have intercourse with him.

As he had soon discovered after becoming Prime Minister of the Kingdom, the lack of an Omegan Princess and later that of the Omegan Consort cemented his own role as that of Royal Omega at the court and his new found status as second in command could not free him from the boundaries of his designated secondary gender; the Sultan took very seriously his role of ‘guarantor of Omegan virtue’ (a title the founder sages of Agrabah had gladly formulated for the ancestor of the royal family, Isa the Man, who was remembered in the kingdom’s history as the greatest alpha male to ever live: proud, strong, just and kind to omegas, their champion, as well as their great fucker and rapist, as Jafar learned from records which were not drenched in triumphalist rhetoric) and had forbidden any man or woman living in the royal quarters, may them be omega or alpha, to approach Jafar in any romantic manner if not moved by a greater dedication, which was that of marrying him.

It was just like he was a woman.

It almost felt like a joke, Jafar thought in the midst of Zumurrud’s cries of pleasures, lost in his own frenzy of delight; he, who had been born into nothingness, as the lowest part of society - an omega (a male one at that), a thief, an inmate – climbed the social ladder, first by enlisting into Agrabah’s army, then by saving the Sultan’s life, gaining his trust and respect, fighting wars for him and finally reaching the status of Vizier, all of that, just to be restricted by other rules, dictated by his sex.

Aristotle used to say that a woman is nothing but an incomplete man that nature forgot to fashion to its ultimate; if that were true, what kind of sick joke was Nature pulling on him of all people?

Made a man on the surface, he was a woman – an omega – between his most nether regions, the female sex under his phallus much like a proof of that, prey to the inconsistencies and cruelty of the heats.

He was a man, enslaved into a body that was only almost manly.

What did Aristotle have to say about that, he that just like Hermaphroditus, was a Greek, a wise man?

At that moment Zumurrud opened her eyes and looked at his’; she then proceeded to lower her head onto his chest to gently start sucking on his nipples.

She took one into her mouth – pinched the other with her fingers – and, after grazing the tip slightly between her teeth while rolling it with her tongue, she started to suckle, causing a wave of pleasure to rush through Jafar who, consumed by the tiredness of intense lovemaking, reached his point, climaxing after one final thrust upwards, into her vulva.

An old trick, that one.

Omegas were known to be extremely sensitive around their chest area, especially around their nipples, supposedly more keen to stimulation because of lactation.

Zumurrud looked up at him from his chest with her ebony eyes and gave a smile, a wide one. The satisfaction of being able to bring the Great Vizier of Agrabah to climax with such a small trick amused her, made her feel powerful. She switched to his other nipple, intent on continuing her assault on them and, after pinching them with her teeth one last time, she rode Jafar to her own completion and reached her climax.

She fell upon him and for a few moments they just laid there, one on top of the other, both trying to even their breath, struggling not to fall prey of the sweet clutches of Morpheus.

It proved to be a quite easy task in the end; Jafar could hear Iago’s voice coming from the window on the left wall, just next to his bed.

“Slut!” squeaked Iago, “Slut in the room!”.

Jafar took the nearest object near him, that turned out to be a candle holder, and threw it in Iago’s direction, who dodged it elegantly thanks to the readiness of his wings, even though his words did not match in refinement.

Jafar didn’t even know where he learned those words from; he had never been so vulgar in his life or, well, at least he doesn’t remember being this vernacular in the bird’s presence. Also, he didn’t know who Iago was referring to with those words and couldn’t shake off the impression that the parrot’s vile remarks were directed to him.

Zumurrud took the bird’s intrusion as an opportunity to wake herself from her own trance and picked up a cloth from near the bed, wetted it in the water of the basin Jafar used to clean his hands into before performing the night _salat_, and started to gently remove from her sex the remnants of the Vizier’s ejaculation; a transparent, plasma-like liquid, sterile and innocuous. Perhaps it was because of that that Zumurrud risked the ire of the Sultan by bedding down with Jafar, an omega could not impregnate another omega.

He was the safest choice between all the idiots who lingered around the Sultan and the fact that he was an omega like her helped her to keep control of the situation, while gaining power amongst the royal retinue.

Aside from that, she had stated quite clearly from the beginning that she had always wanted to have sex with another omega and the fact that he was an omega man – a hermaphrodite, as they were called - aroused her to no end.

Truly, women were such lustful, calculating creatures.

“I can see you brooding there, my Lord” said Zumurrud witch a chuckle, “What trivial matter is your pretty little head obsessing over, this time around?”

How dare she speak to him like that. What was even his problem to keep calling for her.

He extended his arm in the air and waited for Iago to position himself over it while draping a blanket over his lower half, covering his scarred skin. Once the bird calmed down, he lowered himself on his master’s arm and even looked for his petting, which Jafar did.

He carefully and gently stroked his red feathers, pinched his beak.

“I think it’s time for you to leave”, he said with a harsh tone to the woman that was still waiting for his reply, distended on his bed.

“As you wish, my Lord” and, as easily as she had teased him, she got up, almost swinging, and started collecting her clothes which laid on the refined Persian carpets.

“I suppose I will see you once the prince of Skanland arrives, later in the day?” she inquired, only to be met by Iago’s squeaking voice and agitated behavior.

“Not later” the parrot revealed, “Now. The Prince of Skanland is here now”.

At that, Jafar’s alarms went off. He very calmly – at least on the surface – gazed out of his bedroom’s window and saw the ship of the northern countries drop its anchor. “You must leave now”, he said to Zumurrud with a timbre of voice in which he wasn’t sure he had been able to hide his apprehension. “I need to prepare for the arrival of the Skanland’s delegation”.

Zumurrud snorted and with a breath blew a hair out of her sight.

“You could take it easier. After all, this is supposed to be mainly about the Princess. I’m sure the Sultan wouldn’t mind if you skipped the first meeting for a..” she chuckled again, malice shining though her eyes, “… compelling need.”

It didn’t matter how jovial the courtesan’s tone could be, Jafar was perfectly able to understand what the Chinese girl meant when she said “mainly about the Princess”, as if he was some spare Omegan whore the prince could retort his attentions to in front of the very plausible event that the Princess would reject him.

The sole idea disgusted him and filled him with rage, an anger he was prone to deliver unto Zumurrud the insolent.

“How would a woman know of the dynamics of the affairs? All I am calling you for is to have a decent diversion from everyday’s tiring business. Now leave, I am sick of your presence.”

At that, even the Chinese girl’s smile dropped; she collected herself and redressed in silence, composed her hair and her make up and directed herself to the door.

She bowed before trying to take a leave but it was probably her uncontrollable desire to have the last word that imposed her to stay a little bit longer, to have just enough the time to rebuke him.

“I’d like to make myself clear. I meant no offense with my words, my Lord. I know I can be brash sometimes, but I only do that because straightforwardness is a quality that – as baffling as it might seem for you to think of me as actually possessing moral codes – I am not willing to renounce to. Sincerity is my brand outside of pleasure and I think truth is best delivered with a joke.”

Jafar stared at her, unsure if to reprimand her, yell at her or simply have her beheaded for her insolence. How dare she teach him about morals; what was he, a child?

Zumurrud realized that she was getting nowhere near forgiveness with this kind of talk and sighed, added some last words.

“At last, I recommend you cover your neck, my Lord; the odour of burnt cider wood is becoming stronger day by day… We wouldn’t want the prince to guess you were… available.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He took the same candle-holder he threw at Iago (the poor bird had long since parted from his arm, predicting his master’s fit of rage) and tossed it in her direction, aiming at her face but failing thanks to her readiness into moving in time.

“Get. Out. Now.”, said Jafar. _Before I strangle you with my bare hands_, he thought between himself.

She bowed for the last time and closed the doors behind her.

After she left, Jafar’s hormones took the best of him and he couldn’t help but let his legs fail him. He sat on the bed and, still naked, took his temples between his hands. He was devasted.

Tears of stress were threatening to pur down his cheeks.

Iago had perked himself over his snake-like staff, held by a weight, awaiting for his master’s attentions.

The Vizier spared a glance to the bedsheets; the secretions of their bodies were smeared all over them and to his dismay, what he dreaded to be there actually held a place on the blankets: his own slick covered the bed.

͋͋͋

The gates opened and Jasmine’s incessant thinking ended abruptly.

The boy she had met at Agrabah’s bazaar was a thief, interested in nothing more than the value of her golden bracelet – the token from her mother now lost exactly like her comforting presence – and the sight of the Skanland’s delegation awaiting for her at the end of the stairs called the daughter of the Sultan back to reality.

She should have been happy about it; she was an alpha and yet, they somehow managed to still find suitors for her to pick up from. That was every girl’s dream. At least that’s what her father thought, what Dalia kept telling her, what everyone around her liked to remind her.

Truth of the matter is, when the fateful day of her secondary gender presentation came she had felt relieved. Now that she had presented as an alpha, she thought she would be spared from this ridiculous charade.

She had been too optimistic.

Hermaphrodites were killed, that’s what everybody told her. It was a disgrace. And, even though for the sake of the love they felt towards their little girl her parents said nothing, Jasmine knew that, without even lifting a finger, she had disappointed them.

She hesitated before climbing down the stairs but eventually found the presence of mind to go through with it, thanks to the reassuring presence of Dalia – whose name and clothes she had stolen early that same morning – and the tiger Rajah, always at her side.

She started descending and noticed that Jafar was staring at her, just like the prince of Skanland, just like the rest of the court.

Contrary to what everyone assumed, Jasmine didn’t enjoy having every gaze setting upon her figure. She didn’t feel beautiful, she only felt as if she were a doll.

Approaching Prince Anders, feeling Jafar’s look upon her frame, she couldn’t help but wonder if the Vizier looked at her because he was transfixed, or perhaps because what he could see when his eyes set on her was what was in store for him.

Her Baba had tried, in his thirst for political allies and not infrequently, to address the diplomats and nobles’ mating attentions towards his Grand Vizier (once they had failed pursuing the Princess’ love), who also happened to be an omega. Sometimes Jasmine wondered if destiny was toying with them; how could the Sultan of a kingdom as small as Agrabah – a big city, but just a city – be troubled not just by one but rather two hermaphrodites.

Those like Jasmine and Jafar were extremely rare, killed at the moment of designation if not by the strength of their heats.

She made it down the stairs, bowed to her Baba, her caring, severe, loving Sultan and acknowledged Prince Anders’s presence, who looked bewitched.

It wouldn’t be long before his interest would shift to the Vizier, who was brooding as usual behind the Royal father and daughter pair, intent on playing every trick up his sleeve to avoid that scenario.

Everybody knew Jafar was an omega but to be honest, it was quite impossible to tell at first glance.

He had every external trait that would qualify him as the perfect example of an alpha male - tall, austere, strong and bearded - even though the gossip mongers (who Jasmine had realized, overcoming her own stereotypes about omegas and women, were all alpha men) at court liked to see his harsh character as a form of compensation for his… ‘whorish’ instincts, as they called them.

Probably, prince Anders was himself still oblivious to Jafar’s true designation, as the Prime Minister tried to hide it by covering his scent with layers and layers of sterilized clothes, defending his neck from exposition.

But in the end, here they were: the two hermaphrodites of Agrabah stood in close proximity. An omega man and an alpha female. A Vizier and a Princess. Their minds travelling as far as possible from the façade of royal protocol.


	3. Necessity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter I've written so far but I wanted to dive into Jafar's mindest and give Jasmine a sort of moment of outlet about her situation, her relationship with her father and with the court. It follows the events of the movie after Prince Anders' disastrous presentation and Aladdin breaking into the palace.

To say that the encounter between Princess Jasmine and Prince Anders had been a disaster was an understatement. An extremely generous one.

The Princess’ “pet” had bit into his hand, provoking a non-indifferent wound. The tiger’s teeth hadn’t sunk that deeply into the prince’s flesh but any good statesman would have counted the incident as the end of the negotiations.

Yet the Sultan somehow managed to persevere on the idea that the ruler of Skanland could still woo the Princess (who had retired to her chambers like nothing ever happened, a smile of triumph over her lips as she succeeded in her goal). Truly, the faith that man held in Providence was unbelievable. Either it was that or he was just extremely stupid. 

Anyhow, wasn’t he at the right point in life when senility should hit? 

Oh, how easy it would be for Jafar to strike in that scenario. He wouldn’t even need to shed a single drop of blood. 

What other choice could the council of Agrabah retort to in the face of the problem a demented ruler – one that was once great, such a loving and caring alpha Sultan – set upon his kingdom if not to pass the scepter into the hands of his skilled Grand Vizier, who loved him oh-so-much?

It was a good dream, but one that didn’t hold any solid basis, one that was bound to remain such.

After all, they wouldn’t give the kingdom to a woman, why would they choose an omega? 

Oh well, at least Jafar managed to avoid a tête-à-tête with the Prince of Skanland this time. He already had to put up with smiling to him and endulge him into his stupid ramblings about his cannon, the perfect image of his feeble sense of virility.

As a matter of fact, the Sultan quite liked to force his righthand man – his Royal Omega in these cases – into these type of situations. Once his alpha daughter had finished rejecting her suitors and retired to the safe alcove of her quarters, the Sultan would waste no time into redirecting the attentions of the wifeless alphas to his Grand Vizier. 

“Do you know Jafar’s an omega?”, he would tell them during a state council. In front of everyone. Out of nowhere. Like the Vizier hadn’t spent the previous hours trying to hide his own scent.

It made Jafar want to rip his throat out with his own teeth. 

Instead, he would settle everytime to biting the inside of his cheek and force a smile into the Sultan’s direction, thinking of every possible curse inside of his head. He would set matters straight with the foreign delegates afterwards, resorting to hypnosis or the old, simple, always effective death glare. 

“If you so much as try to lift a finger in my direction again I will readily throw you into the most venomous snake pit I shall find. And make sure you died slowly. Extremely slow.” He had once whispered to the amir of Nahr when, during a celebrations for the Sultan’s 59th birthday many years ago the Princ had positioned one of his greasy hands over Jafar’s backside, stroking it slightly, while his fingers swiftly glided towards his genitalia from behind, taking advantage of the fact that everybody was concentrated on the performance of the Queen who, still alive, played the lute and sang a song for her beloved husband, as it was custom for her to do every year.  
An angelic voice that of the Royal Omegan Consort, delightful even to the ear of nightingales. 

A quality that, however, didn’t stop mugglers from assaulting her in the streets. 

Poor, ingenous, stupid thing. She had found death by the hands of the same people she oppressed through her opulent lifestyle.

To be truthful, it wasn’t completely her fault. 

In her own way, she truly cared about the people of Agrabah, wanting to meet them at any possible occasion.

Yet, most of the members of the court were oblivious at best and uncaring at worst of the condition of the city-state outside of the palace walls. 

Huddled masses of poor had taken the streets over while the rich and the noble lived in a fortress-like palace made of gold, silver and crystal, unaware or – to be precise – uncaring of what the kingdom behind the palace gates looked and felt like. 

The city and the port still managed to be lively and energetic but the wealth of the markets remained in the clutches of a few selected group of people and Jafar knew too well the sentiments of envy and anger that such a situation arose in the minds of the miserable. He had been like that once and he knew, he just could tell, that Agrabah was at the verge of a mass insurrection. Like Sherabad many years ago.

Nahr, Sherabad, Madinat-al-Layl and Zaytun. These were all the neighboring countries of Agrabah, that enclosed it between the desert and the sea, leaving Jafar with the uneasy feeling that they might strike at any moment. 

After all, Nahr and Sherabad had no qualms over displaying their aggressive attitude towards the unoccupied lands (even though it had still not been directed towards Agrabah, at least not in recent history) that surrounded their countries and the small consolation of the pledge of allegiance between Agrabah and the innocous city-states of al-Layl and Zaytun did very little to dull Jafar’s paranoia. 

Borders and walls were frail, prey to Luck’s moodiness.

It was necessary, to say the least, for Agrabah to form new alliances - solid ones - that would last through the decades. And that was exactly what a marriage would provide: stability, strength, economic development and popular tranquillity, which calm was to be “favoured” through the mass implement of the country’s military’s control and power.

Jafar had never tried to hide his thirst for power; not to himself nor in the face of others (even though, to be completely honest, he might have tamed it a little bit), but he was also perfectly conscious of what was that was needed to be done. He knew how to run a country. He had the capacity and will to restor it to its golden age, to save it.

He knew what was best for Agrabah.

So, to him, that the Princess, a woman, would come boasting through the doors of the most sacred space where political affairs took place – the Sultan’s study – and demanded explanations over Jafar’s propositions – almost as if he hadn’t spent years of his life fighting for this country – out of mere sentimentalism and delusions of “propriety” felt like the worst between the insults. 

It was her fault they were in this situation anyway. 

If she had just stuck to choosing one of those foreign dumbasses as a husband – as it was her duty, her simple, only duty – Agrabah wouldn’t find itself in such a precarious position.

He wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of being treated like a woman.

“Jafar, I understand your feelings but you also must acknowledge the fact that your position is a gift I gave you in the face of the extreme talent and extraordinary skills you were able to display.”, the Sultan had once told him, after the first time he had tried to secure an alliance with a foreign power by proposing the Grand Vizier’s hand in marriage, as if he was some precious virgin to sell. Just like Jafar had never done anything to earn the position he reached. As if Jafar had ever been a virgin in the first place. 

And when he had tried to form some sort of protest, the Sultan rejected any kind of discord marching on with his hateful speech.

“My dear”, he called him, as he always did before telling him something extremely unfair, before reprimanding him like a bad child.

“For all the qualities you could master, for all the goals you would be able to achieve, you would still be of bedouin blood. And you would still be an Omega.”

And here it was, the greatest insult he had ever received in his life. The one everybody kept reminding him about. The reason he was so underestimated. 

“You might look like a man”, the Sultan had added, “but you really are a woman.”

Oh, the anger he had felt that night.

For the impulse to murder to arise so quickly only to be tamed in a matter of seconds, out of necessity.

In Jafar’s mind he was meant to rule, he had been born for this task. No matter what the people, the law, the erudite and the aristocracy would say about the child of dusty desert travellers.

He also had been born to be a man. And no one could convince him otherwise.

These people that surrounded him, the Sultan, the nobility, the Queen and the Princess, who spoke oh-so.highly of morals and countries - as if she knew anything about that - were all born into privilege and none of them deserved more the role of ruler than he did. Their power was only the result of privilege, Jafar’s own position was achieved through hard work and sacrifice.

“Baba, Rajah would be a better ruler for the kingdom.”, the Princess said to her father with a condescending tone, waking Jafar from his train of thoughts, referring to the gaffe with Prince Anders.

“What could a foreign prince do for Agrabah that I would not perform better? What kind of care could he put into the well being of our kingdom that I would not?” she carried on, a flustered spirit running through her words.

“My dear”, the Sultan replied (now it was the time to reprimand her, ha!), “You cannot be Sultan because it has never been done in the 1000 years of History of our country.”

“Not right.”, Jafar thought between himself. Technically, it would be unfair to not count the brief rule of Queen Banu the Persian, an omega who had succeded to her husband after his death. Her kingdom had lasted no more than three years, before her son took over and exhiled her to avoid any kind of retortions, but it distinguished itself for the social policies Banu had introduced: a house to every homeless, hospitals for the poor and the instensifying of zakat. However when her child, Rashid, deposed her, little of her efforts survived. 

Jafar briefly wondered if the Sultan was purposefully preserving this information from public domain or if he was simply oblivious to it. Anyway, it suited him just fine. Allah spare them that the Princess may start thinking ruling is the job of a woman, because it is not. Even if she is an Alpha. 

“But I am prepared! I have been preparing for this my whole life, I have read and…”

“Books?”, the Grand Vizier interrupted his Princess with a scolding attitude. Enough was enough. He would no longer take her hysterical ramblings. 

“You cannot compensate inexperience with books, My Princess. If left unchecked, people will revolt. If unguarded, walls will be attacked. My propositions are nothing more than the result of my experience and it is my heartfelt recommendation that we secure our position through new alliances for we can never be sure of what a country such as Sherabad may be capable of.”

Only that Jafar knew. His skin was marred with the cruelties of a sherabadian jail, bengali iron the instrument with which his tortures turned into midnight tremors.

The Princess, Jasmine, looked at him with defiance. Her eyes squinted into a look similar to that of a tiger ready to chase its prey, her lips writhed into a grimace that was the prelude to a heartfelt rebuke but it was in that moment that the Sultan intervened.

“Jafar is right, my Dear.”, he said matter-of-factly as his eyes became softer, more indulgent, as it was custom for the Sultan to get after just a few moments of quarreling with his beloved daughter. The silly old fool wasn’t keen of contradicting the light of his eyes.

“One day, you will understand it. You will acknowledge that your marriage is not only the best choice for Agrabah, but also the best option for you.”

“But…”, the Princess tried to carry on but was met with the Sultan’s deaf ears.

“You may leave now.”

So she left, a look of outrage sported on her beautiful features now contorted into something that, if Jafar didn’t know her better - if he wasn’t aware of her strength - he would mistake as the first facial tensings of weeping.

But it wasn’t over. Not for Jasmine nor for Jafar.

“This is also your fault, Jafar.”, the Sultan said while turning to face him with an unappreciative gaze, peeve etched into the outlines of his creases, “If you just considered the idea of choosing an alpha between the foreign delegates as well, we wouldn’t find ourselves in such a precarious position.”

Jafar burst out of the room, repressing the temptation of smashing the Sultan’s head through the wall.

***

Best for her, her Baba had said.

Best. For. Her.

What a load of bullshit.

Jasmine knew it wasn’t appropriate for a princess to be this unexceptionally vernacular. It was something she had learned since her childhood; and through the constant, oppressive “care” of her nunnies she had also learned to correct her speech. 

Or, at the very least, to modify it in the presence of others. 

When the time came for her to present and it was revealed that the princess was an alpha, people at court whispered in every possible ear that surely her vulgarity was due to her alpha nature and at least this abominable event was able to shed light over the princess’ masculine words and amusements. 

“Now a lot of things finally make sense…”, the courtesans had said with venomous tongues amongst the aristrocracy of Agrabah and from that moment on eyes followed her every step. Muffled words and judging glares commenting each of her actions:

There goes the Ermaphrodite Princess, they would say. There goes the doom of Agrabah.

She was the only child of the Royal Couple and, alas, she not only was a woman, she was an alpha woman. 

How in the world were they going to marry her? Nobody wanted a woman that was not really a woman. 

Even though the ancient sages had established that an alpha woman posed no threat to the country’s habit as long as she accepted to degrade herself into rejecting her designation and becoming a wife, men were still wary of the idea of an alpha bride. What If she tried to best them, trying to “turn” them into omegas? That was the lingering prejudice spread throughout the potentates of the House of Islam and, even if they managed to find her a husband, how could two alphas sire a child? Since the first reports of the existence of hermaphrodites in the land of the Hellens, many centuries ago, sources would always stress the infertility of same-designation couples, even if the pairs consisted of two people of opposite sexes.

Destined to remain heirless, Agrabah was certainly doomed.

And yet, Jasmine’s father kept praying for a miracle and thought marriage to be still the best option for the kingdom. Even if Jasmine really wasn’t able to bear children, they could still hope in a chance of survival for Agrabah, a temporary one at that. A foreign prince would defend it. 

But Jasmine knew that her Baba’s hopes were nothing more than mere chimaera. Who could assure them that, once gained the title of Sultan, her future husband and retinue would not disavow her, banishing her from her own house, her lands, her throne, at last leaving the people of Agrabah at the mercy of a foreign and indifferent power? That would really be the end of their dinasty.

The truth was, as Jasmine thought while she fled from the Sultan’s study through the magnificently sculpted galleries of the palace that was also her cage, that her father wanted to punish her. She could glimpse delusion in his eyes as she had many years ago when the day of her presentation came. She was born a female, she was born an alpha, and ruined all of his plans. Her sole existence was a threat for tradition, her temper a mace destined to shatter the foundations of a millennial country that knew no defeat. A woman could not be a Sultan and a woman that wasn’t an omega wasn’t also a woman. 

Jasmine decreased the nervous pace her feet had acquired and her powerful stride came to an end. Rajah came to her aid – as she was following in tow, a few steps behind the Princess -stopping in front of her, looking at her master expectantly, as if she was just waiting for her permission to rub her furry head against the palm of her hand, to comfort.  
Instead, Jasmine leaned over the handles of an unguarded door, a small room filling the space opposite the corridor she was in, and let her lips open into a sigh. 

Not a man. Not a woman.

Jasmine was both none of those things and in between them. Her existance a plague for the dinasty, an obloquy on her father and her role as that of a useless heir to the throne of Agrabah. That was what the law from a thousand years ago had stated. 

“Bullshit”, she thought again, anger threatening to seep through her veins, “These rules are simply foolish.”

Lost in her thoughts, Jasmine took notice of someone eles’s approaching steps far too late for her to leave them behind, so that she could seek refuge in her chambers, into Dalia’s reassuring arms, away from this hellish day. But before she could even turn, the steps came to a halt and the gaze that set upon her frame was as intense as the same she had felt when descending the stairs to be presented to Prince Anders. 

She now knew too well Jafar’s intense stare, his deep black eyes bearing into her skin like piercing knives, almost as if he was able to look directly into her soul.  
It was a tactic to make her uncomfortable, that much she could tell.

Whatever. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his rude – and somehow very childish – behaviour. 

Encouraged by the illusion that her silence must have signified submission on Jasmine’s part, Jafar felt comfortable enough to approach her and spit, with snakelike tongue, foul sentences in her direction.

“Life will be kinder to you, Princess,” he softly began, trying to hide the venom in his voice, “once you accept these traditions and understand that it’s better for you to be seen…” 

He came closer and took a break before continuing his speech, so that he could better enjoy the act of invading her personal space, reaching so close to her that she felt like if she just turned, she would have bumped into his chest.

“… and not heard.”

At that, he inhaled deeply, taking in her scent, like a wolf does with its prey before swallowing it whole, to better savour the pleasure of subjugation and it was in that istant that Jasmine realized, with a discreet amount of awe, that it wasn’t her flowery perfume the strongest odour filling the room; the trace that burnt cedar wood mixed with the sweet and yet pulsing aroma of wild honey left in the air was much stronger than any perfume invented by humanity. She could almost feel it filling her mouth to gently rest on her tongue and it took her an impressive amount of effort not to start salivating.

It didn’t take long for Jasmine to figure out that the raw, spontaneous fragrance came from Jafar’s epidermis.  
Could it be…

She cleared her throat in silence and swallowed the liquid that had gathered at the corners of her mouth.

“Is your heat upon you, Jafar?” she asked very matter-of-factly, turning to face him and refusing to address him with his title, as she didn’t think of him as belonging in their midst, “Is this why you are excteptionally intolerable these days?”

Jafar’s cheeks filled with color and suddenly his smugness made space for a look of bewilderement on his face: his eyes widened and his lips sealed, taking the form of what was supposed to be a pout of indignation. 

She knew it was a low blow. But she just couldn’t help herself; after all, it was he that started it.

“You know, you could probably drench your clothes in the darkest pitch you cuould find but it is said that the pure scent of a “woman” when her heat is about to strike cannot be outdone by the strongest odour in the world. But, what would I know? I am an alpha, after all.”

He petrified. Jasmine could see rage seeping through his eyes but now it was her turn to sport a payback smile on her features. 

She distanced herself from him and slowly made her way to her chambers, knowing that Rajah would roar him back to his place, knowing that this time the winner of their argument was none other but her.

***

Infiltrating into the palace hadn’t been as difficult as Aladdin had first thought. Apparently, all the guards that the Grand Vizier had decided to strew throughout Agrabah were still not enough to prevent a street thief such as himself to work his magic. Sure, Aladdin knew that he was a step above common burglars but he also realized that it wasn’t something to brag about. He was still a thief and that knowledge had hurt Dalia deeply.

“You’re a thief.”, she had said to him prior that afternoon, before escaping to the golden palace he had now broke into, like she had always known or, better yet, like she arrived to the conclusion that she should have known. 

Somehow, even if Aladdin had learned to make peace with the quick looks of annoyance and disgust he could read into people’s eyes whenever passing by any common area of the city, he couldn’t shake off the image of Dalia’s. He felt like there was something deeper than mere judgment for a lowlife like him, reduced to stealing to survive; he had seen sadness, like she had felt betrayed by him. Dalia had told him about how she felt contrived by the palace life, the rules and all the expectations that were placed upon her by others. She had confided in him, uplifted by the fact that she believed to have found a spirit akin to hers. But then, right in the marketplace, when she thought Aladdin had just tried to woo her to steal her precious bracelet, a memento of her mother, she couldn’t have looked more melancholic, as if Aladdin had stabbed her in the chest, aiming at her heart. 

He could almost hear the words that remained enclosed between her lips, on the tip of her tongue: “Not you too.”

So Aladdin was ready to make amends. Even thieves have morals. Like he had told Abu, the little monkey that had stolen the bracelet in the first place (now mortified and ready to help him achieve his goal of redemption): “Sometimes we steal. Sometimes we do not.”

And Dalia… Dalia was no plunder to steal something from.

Aladdin too had seen something in her. He knew that there was a connection. 

He also knew that what he was doing was crazy, possibly suicidal but he, at least, wanted a chance to apologize, even if it meant never seeing her again.

Oh, who was he kidding. He wouldn’t have taken the trouble to break into the Royal Palace of Agrabah if he thought he wouldn’t meet her ever again, seeing her smile again.

He swiftly grabbed a coat from over a chair, a hat from the room of the servants and took advantage of everybody’s busy schedule to skim though the guards unobserved.

He took a tray of tea that was lying just outside of the kitchen before the person that was in charge of bringing it everywhere it was needed came back with the instructions as where to deliver it and directed himself towards the Princess’ chamber, sure to find Dalia - her handmaiden – there. 

Abu had climbed on top of the pillars of the corridor and took it upon himself to guide Aladdin into the right direction from above, bouncing from truss to frame with the agility that characterized monkeys. 

Everything was going smoothly and a growing excitement slowly filled Aladdin's chest, a slight pride in his athletic abilities taking over the frenzied state of his mind. Nevertheless, nor Aladdin nor Abu were able to catch sight of the feathery presence that took notice of their every step, perched upon a pillar that Abu, oh-so-quickly, passed by.

***

The curative properties of a hot bath were well known to the founders of Agrabah who, after discovering the existance of small thermal springs disseminated in the proximity of the seashore of the lands they had occupied, treated it like gold (how could they have done otherwise? After all, isn’t water the greatest treasure one could find in the desert?) and were quick to ensure their survival and expand their ray of action. Soon after their discovery, the fortress the earliest Sultans had erected by the seaside as the epicentre of the political affairs was equipped with a hammam, the most opulent the then small town of Agrabah had ever seen. It had been the first step to complete a larger project that saw the fortress becoming a full-fledged palace, where the royal family and the court could permanently reside. 

Come to think of it, Jafar doubted anyone in the building had any idea how the structure had come to be. 

It was an information that he had collected when he was still living outside the golden chambers of high state political figures, a tale meant for soldiers to entertain themseleves with during the cold nights of watch when Jafar was still a simple soldier in the troops of the Sultan of Agrabah, engaged in war with a small potentate in the desert of which ruler -a mad man, yet a mad man with a lot of warriors (he hadn’t been easy to take down) - had occupied the infertile lands and declared himself Amir of All Dunes. 

Listening to the careful and detailed report of Mufid, the oldest infantryman of their division, Jafar had dozed off that night imagining the coziness of the velvety warm water, hoping to feel it one day on his own marred skin. He could now tell with certainty that imagination could in no possible way hope to compete with the real thing. 

After dismissing the slaves and whores that usually stood just nearby the bathing pool - who waited expectantly for a request from the bathers- finding himself finally alone for the first time that day, Jafar’s legs slowly gave in to the warmth of the water and, comforted by the sweet perfume of incense and other drugs, sank entirely into the pool, allowing some water to splash out the brim when the bottom of the tub received his full body weight.

He stared at an indefinite distant point in the room, taking in the mellow feeling of relax that came with a hot bath before sucking in some air and lowering his entire head into the water, a process that he repeated three times, each of which saw him spending quite an impressive amount of seconds underneath the level of the water. 

It was a way to clear his head: after his “private conversation” with the Princess, Jafar had quickly resumed his schedule as the Vizier of Agrabah and sat alongside the dignitaries of the country and the foreign delegation at the banquet that the Sultan had had prepared for the latter. He had to go through with the talks despite the costant, everpresent, intrusive stare of Prince Anders who, as Jafar soon noticed, had also pointed a couple of times in his direction before turning to speak with members of his retinue, no doubt finally realizing that the smell of omega pervading the room came from none other than him. 

On that note, Jafar admitted that he had really underestimated the intensity of his scent. 

Poor Hakim, the alpha head of the guards, had used every trick up his sleeve to resist the urge to grab him by the collar and attach his tongue on his neck to better take in the growing odour of omega prior that evening, when he had come to Jafar’s study to report a quite peculiar sight he took in while on shift at the Market Place, the best information he had received during this damned day: the Alpha Princess was at the Bazaar. 

Jafar ran his hands through his face and hair to wipe some droplets of water out off his features before breaking into a low laughter, smiling at the power that came with this new knowledge.

He would use it in due time.

To be fair though, he hoped he wouldn’t have to wait for too long now, wished that he could retrieve the lamp as soon as possible. 

It had been months since his search for this infamous “diamond in the rough” had started and nothing and no one seemed to be worthy.

All Jafar knew was that he couldn’t take it anymore and, to be honest, he hadn’t been able to stand it from the beginning, from that wretched day before the final strike against the “Amir of the Deserts”. 

Alone in his tent - that of Commander of the West Division as he had already gained the Sultan’s trust and respect– Jafar had finally presented as an omega. 

It had been so painful, not only phisically (male omegas were not born equipped with a vulva, they developed one during their first heat, a painful and flesh-tearing process that lasted hours before the real wave of lust could hit) but especially mentally; he had lived all his life believing he was an alpha and then, out of some sick sense of irony, Nature had him turned into a lowlife, half man and half woman, the scourge of society. 

Hoardes of alpha soldiers had gathered around his post, trying to make their way inside the tent so they could have their share of the omega in heat even before realizing that the omega they were talking about was a man, their commander (something that, if you asked Jafar, had only spurred some of them on) and it had taken the strenght of Hakim’s will and fists as well as the arrival of the Alpha Sultan, the best of all alphas, to quiet the situation down. The sultan had come into the tent, took a look at him – laying on the ground naked, as it was far too hot for him to be dressed, with a hand stroking his shaft and the other using its fingers to plunge into the newly formed vulva, which still released some blood amongst the abundant flow of slick – and, with an annoyed look, a sigh and showing a restraint that only the Head of Alphas, blessed by God’s favour, could have sported, he squatted down over the prone figure, whispering into Jafar’s ear: “If I had known you were an omega, I would have spared myself and you this travesty of raising to power a bedouin.”

He had left the tent then, leaving Jafar in his frenzied state and sent to him omega women to satisfy his every need, with Hakim as a bodyguard who occasionally came inside to assest the state of the situation, probably wondering – or better said, hoping – if he should stay;“in case Jafar needed anything from him”, as he had said. What the fuck could he have ever needed from him if not what Hakim meant all along. That hunter-like, animalistic behaviour from those days was probably why the alpha was so docile in front of him now. Before that night, him and Hakim had been friends and, even though Jafar still took a step up the ladder of politics and Hakim tried to maintain a semblance of a normal professional relationship, the alpha still couldn’t shake off the sense of guilt that took hold of him after Jafar’s first heat, realizing that he was willing to treat someone he was friends with like a hole to fuck. 

Oh well, maybe their relationship wasn’t perfect but Jafar appreciated some extra loyalty and he would repay him sooner or later, maybe once he became Sultan.

It was why he needed the lamp; no alchemist trick he would play, no sorcery he could ever hope to achieve could change the state of things. Only the jinn inside the lamp could make him the strongest man in the room and help him take revenge on those who debased him; only the magic of a being created out of smokeless fire could free him from this hellish nightmare of a body that was not his own.

Slowly, Jafar’s meditations came to a halt and he grabbed a silver plate near the edge of the basin where a glass fille with a liquid substance, made out of a mixture of herbs, and a thin, carved iron cilinder - similar in size and form to a knitting needle - layed. He used a finger to draw it nearer to himself and, after taking the first sip of his drink (bitter as always and as always he needed to finish it entirely) his mind wandered to his conversation with the Princess. 

He had never released so much slick in his life as he had in that moment, not even during the proper heat, and he felt ashamed by the effect that she had on him.  
Sure, she was an alpha, but a man should never submit to a woman in that way.  
It made him feel as less than a human being; it constantly reminded him as belonging to a place he didn’t think he deserved: a common bitch.

Poor thing, in the end, the Princess was as well plagued with a body and a temperament that were not her own. Jafar knew that. And he also meant what he had said to her, life will be kinder to her once she learns to understand what her true nature really is. Just like Jafar had figured out his.

He finished his drink and mumbled a few quiet words in a language he wasn’t so sure he fully comprehended, took the iron tool next to the glass. He raised his pelvis so he could sit on the edge of the pool. A shiver took hold of him as the skin of his lower abdomen made contact with the cool air outside of the water, stretching the hole-like womb scars that resembled a duplicate of the milky way over his epidermis, to a point in which it was almost painful. He knew he couldn’t carry on with this tricks for too long; the witch had told him that every spell he would use would only distance the heat and, quite frankly, he had difficulties into finding some free space over his womb on which to keep performing the wizardry. He finally spotted it. It was right next to his navel. So, he took in a breath, closed his eyes and sank the needle into his flesh, before doubling over himself from the pain. He swiftly took a towel that laid neraby and placed it over the wound before retrieving the needle from it. He repressed a cry and spent a few moments trying to even out his breath. It wasn’t a big wound but it had sank deeply into his body. But that was how the spell worked. 

The small consolation of the decreasing stench of burnt cedar wood mixed with honey didn’t take too long to arrive.

In that same moment, when Jafar was finally able to get back into the bathing pool to let some of the blood disperse into the water, Iago flew through the window and, instead of perching himseld over his master’s shoulders, settled to the tiles next to the brim, near his owner’s head. 

Jafar turned to look at him and run his fingers through the feathers over Iago’s head before turning to scratch its beak, a gesture that his feathered friend much appreciated. 

“Have you come to mock me once again, Iago?” he said with a low voice, a hand still placed over the bleeding wound in his belly.

“Thief in the Palace!”, Iago squeaked in response, taking him by surprise.

“Diamond in the Rough!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am sorry I have been absent for so long but I basically spent my vacation somewhere on earth that it's still deprived of Internet, XD. Anyway I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter; shortly, I will dive into the task of changing a bit of the storyline, see you soon!


	4. Opportunities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end of the chapter for translations.

Aladdin couldn’t breathe. Of that much, he knew he could be sure.

He couldn’t fully figure out if it was his fear that led him into the paranoical state of hyperventilation or the tightness of the bag around his head but the stench of the latter mentioned was increasing and he didn’t know how much longer he could take it before fainting, or worse, asphyxiating.

To think that he would die soon after reconciliating with Dalia, one of the best things that ever happened in his life, made Aladdin wonder between himself, trying to grasp the last bits of consciousness that the lack of air was willing to allow him, if this was at last a vindication by God’s hand for all the years spent as a thief, depriving people of their most cherished possessions.

It wasn’t completely his fault. Stealing had been the quickest way to fill his stomach after the death of his parents – who, even when alive, could barely provide for him - and what started as mere shoplifting - often if not always directed to food items, such as loaves of bread, apples and, sometimes, even sugary treats - became a routine, a habit that slowly turned into a full-time job, as Aladdin liked to think of it, that guaranteed him the bare necessities for survival.

Yet, Aladdin knew that whatever explanation he might provide for his crimes, they would not be justified in the eyes of the Immortal Law of Agrabah.

“Thou shan’t steal”, the Prophet Musa had declared over the top of Mount Sinai and that millenial commandment had found home into the carved letters of Agrabah’s own _Nuafidh Aleadl_ – the Windows of Justice, ancient forms of glass that bore the country’s carved set of laws – for everybody to witness.

He had been told once what the punishment for stealing consisted of, after one of the first times Aladdin had ever nicked out of hunger, taken by the frenzy of not having been caught yet.

_“First, you will get ten lashes”_, Tabris the postman had said, while regaining breath as he had spent the previous half hour chasing and then beating Aladdin almost to unconsciousness (for a brass ring, something that the thief would never forget).

_“Then twenty”,_ he carried on between rasps, _“Thirty. Fourty. Fifty. You will get whipped until every nerve on your back will be turned upside down and blood will coat every single inch of your backside.”_

He had slowly approached the boy, knelt next to the level of his head and took back the ring that Aladdin was still firmly grasping in his hands; not because he had harboured some illusion to keep it for later use, but out of mere physical necessity: he had needed something to clutch as a distraction from the searing pain his battered body had been put through.

_“Then they will cut your hand. Then both of them. And in the end, you will walk among the culverts of the city as the worst of the outcasts, not even able to take care of yourself.”_

Then, Tabris left. 

Aladdin had been fourteen and the cries for the pain in his body were mixing with the outrageous agony of the knowledge of solitude, memories of his parents coming back to the surface to torment him with the recollection of their absence.

Surely the laws Tabris had admonished him about had been decided by rich people who had never - not once in their life - had to face the reality of starving to death. And yet, rich people were the ones bestowed with the duty of judging the poor’s actions.

They wouldn’t understand. They would never understand. Just like Dalia hadn’t.

So Aladdin decided to appease, decided to think that in the end it couldn’t be anything but his fault. After all, he was the one who had chosen to resort to stealing, he was the one that wasn’t trying hard enough. He had decided to be vile.

It had to be like that, right? He was being punished for his crimes. Or none of what was happening to him made any sense.

He was being taken somewhere only God knew, his hands tied to the saddle of the camel he was riding on, while being intoxicated with the stench of a secured bag over his head, a smell Aladdin thought had less to do with the bag itself and much more with his own breath and odour. Too much had passed since the last time he had a decent bath, the occasion of brushing his teeth.

The wonderful memory of the _hammams_ of Agrabah, destined for the plebs, resurfaced alongside the image of him and Abu scratching off the dirt from their skin, something that made him feel clean for the first time in months.

The thought of Abu made him go into panic.

He could feel the little creature grabbing his vest from the back of the camel, could feel the tremor in his small fingers and Aladdin’s breath suddenly became completly uneven if almost non-existant: what would happen to Abu if he died? He doubted anybody would show him kindness. Would he die too? Or would he become a caged animal, tortured for the sake of somebody else’s amusement?

Tears fell smoothly down Aladdin’s cheek as fear completely overtook his spirit; Abu was his only friend and that was how he repaid him. Leading him to almost certain death.

Aladdin realized that that was what he had gotten himself into by sneaking into the palace and talking to one of the royal omegas, his arrogance clouding his better judgement: death was awaiting him. All he could do was hoping it would be a quick one and maybe, just maybe, hoping he would be allowed to expire clutching Dalia’s bracelet, something that a dream that almost came true and a smile had blessed him with.

They came to a halt and Aladdin broke into a coughing fit, paranoia taking its toll on him. He was about to throw up from anxiety.

The street thief was brusquely forced off of the camel and ushered to a direction he was not able to fully make out as Abu followed in tow, making himself heard through his approaching and laboured screeches.

He was made to sit over a hot, burning surface that he soon realized was desert sand while the sack was surprisingly, oh-so-gently, removed from his head.

He expected a blow to the neck that never came. Instead, his ragged breathing soon quieted down - resumed its normal pace - and his eyes tried to adjust to the newly found brightness of the desert sun.

A strange smell pervaded the air: burnt wood tinged with a touch of sweetness; a prickly, honey-like nuance that mixed with a quiet unexpected and unusual companion such as the strength of smoked cedar was. Too occupied with taking in the scent, Aladdin deprived himself of the occasion of figuring out that that in front of him was indeed a figure claded in black, and not the outline of a shadow that he thought would soon become his entire world, darkness conquering his eyes as the sudden passage from the enclosed black cap to light had presumably blinded him. It didn’t take long to Aladdin, though, to realize that the source of the intense - and almost pleasurable – odour was the same pitch black silhouette.

“Stop scenting around as if you were an alpha in a brothel”, the black figure said to him with a soft, masculine voice, “It’s rather rude, don’t you think?”

Aladdin gulped down a lump in his throat and as his blurred vision slowly adjusted to the light he took his fez back from Abu’s hands, that offered it to him with a troubled look, and squinted so he could examine the person sitting next to him, to his left.

Realization descended upon him and he recognized in the profile of the man next to him the Grand Vizier of Agrabah.

It was the first time he had the opportunity to look at him from such a close distance; the retinue of the Royal Family rarely ventured out of the palace walls, as Dalia herself had confirmed.

“Why would you?”, Aladdin had told Dalia somehow bashfully after returning her bracelet, “There is nothing amusing about the streets of Agrabah.”

And he meant that, he really did. What would such refined fellows find to entertain themselves with in the deteriorated meanders of Agrabah? He admired Dalia for wanting to learn more about the life outside of the palace walls but it was no place to spend one’s time in. Defenitely not for fun.

On the other hand, the Vizier was different from other folks at the Palace.

Upon a closer look, Aladdin realized that the infamous ruthless Vizier wasn’t like he always expected; He was a tall, handsome man, his face adorned with a thick black beard, his deep black eyes augmented by his high cheekbones. His skin was a golden colour, similar to that of the sunburnt people of the desert, something that was quite peculiar for someone living inside a Palace. But he imagined that the roughness of his skin was only specular to his merciless interior.

The Vizier was the one who had implemented the post guards throughout Agrabah - following the death of the Royal Omega and after one of his usual visits to the city - set on terrorizing its inhabitants with their petty aggressiveness and ruthlessness, well known to the common folks who had experienced it first hand. Broken arms, missing teeth and countless other forms of vexing had become a normality. Some speculated that the Vizier didn’t like the idea of resorting to jail for the simple fact that prisons became readily full, meanwhile a severed hand proved to be a quicker method to deter crime.

Surely, the cruelty of the guards only mirrored the Grand Vizier’s orders.

Aladdin had once overheard people at the harbour talking about him, feigning some semblance of understanding in political matters; they said that the Vizier was indeed the one true Sultan of Agrabah, that he had taken advantage of the Queen’s assassination to seclude through fear and paranoia the Sultan and his family in their own palace so that he could rule in their place. Aladdin had also heard, right before a couple of guards came to the side of the unaware fishermen to interrupt their disrespectful (and possibly treacherous) speech, that the Sultan was probably under the effect of an omega’s sly seductions.

Oh yes, the Grand Vizier of Agrabah was, mind you, nothing more and nothing less than one of those phenomenal hermaphrodites.

_“Poor Sultan, our beloved, devoted ruler”_, they had all chanted with surprising haughtiness at the common sharing of that information, as if the hermaphroditic nature of the omega they were talking about somehow excused the disrespectful words they were addressing towards him, their superior in every way; sympathy and malice filled their voices as they proclaimed that the “poor” – richest and most powerful man in Agrabah, Aladdin liked to remind– Sultan was plagued with having to make due with the loss of a woman and he probably had felt the need to shove his dick in the nearest cunt available. And that had turned out to belong to his mischievous second in command.

_“In the end it doesn’t matter if what we see is a man,”_ Umar had confidently stated, wearing a smug on his face, unaware of the soldiers’ proximity to him, _“Omegas will act as misleading cunts as soon as they are given the opportunity.”_

That sole assertion had gained Umar a broken arm, a black eye, a night spent in jail and twenty lashes as punishment for “unjustly sullying the Sultan and the Grand Vizier’s reputation for the public ear to listen to .”

They had said he had been lucky. Someone else had lost their tongue for much less than that.

But now that Aladdin was side to side to him - now that he was sitting over the bare desert sand next to one of the two “Prodigious Hermaphrodites of Agrabah” - it seemed that he could not reconciliate in any way the image of the terrible man that held the country in his firm, constricting grip with the figure he was now presented with.

For one, Aladdin didn’t certainly expect the Vizier to be so appealing to the sight.

“Where am I?”, Aladdin asked, trying to distract himself from the thought, after realizing how much time he had spent into taking in every undertone of the Vizier’s aroma.

“In a world of trouble, boy.”, he replied, graciously ignoring Aladdin’s persistent, indecent scrutiny.

“Is this about the bracelet? The handmaid said…”

The Vizier took a gulp out of his jug and said: “Handmaid, what Handmaid. That is the Deceased Queen’s old precious.”

“The queen? What does the queen have anything to do with this? Dalia told me it was her-”

“Her mother’s, yes, that is the truth; as true is the fact that the princess’ handmaiden’s name is Dalia.”, he licked his lips and carried on, “However, your love effusions were not directed to her, but to the Alpha Princess. But I see now that your ignorance goes past what I had initially presumed.”

Aladdin’s cheecks became instantly red, embarassment clouding his eyes and taking him aback. He had been talking to the hermpahrodite princess? The same princess he had spoken about as if she was some kind of freak of nature? No wonder she had looked so vexed.

“Do not fret over it, boy, she is amused by plebeians. You’re neither her first conquest nor her last.”

Aladdin felt devastated. Conquest? She truly was an alpha then, charming her way through the crowd only to leave with a promise to come back without solid basis; not only did she toy with him, he had also looked like a complete fool in front of her.

To think that he really believed she liked him.

Only now the scope of what he was doing came to him in full scale and he felt so stupid.

What business did he have believing that he could pursue a Palace omega’s love? What chance did he stand now knowing she not only was an alpha, but the princess herself.

For a moment, silence fell upon them, as Aladdin couldn’t help but sigh at the disastrous news while the Vizier cherished the moment to better enjoy the warm coziness of daylight.

“How do they call you?”, the Vizier asked, taking in a deep breath and opening his eyelids, interrupting their quiet.

“Aladdin.”

“Aladdin.”, he repeated the name to better articulate the sound of it, almost as if he thought he would forget it without saying it. “People like us must be realistic.”

“Us?”, Aladdin asked rather sceptical. What similarities did he find between them? For one, Aladdin was an alpha. If the Prime Minister was alluding to the gaffe he made with Princess Jasmine to suggest that he had been played with like a deflowered, impregnated omega girl, then he…

“Yes. Like us.” And, with a swift gesture, the Vizier raised his hand in front of Aladdin’s face to show the prize he had silently swiped from the street thief’s pocket: Dali-the princess’ brooch - the one he had promised to return that very same night but couldn’t, now that he was stuck in the middle of the desert alongside the most powerful man in Agrabah - rested upon the Grand Vizier’s slim and polished fingers.

He dangled it in front of his face, mocking the robber’s incapacity to regain control over the situation, amused at his own foresight.

So in the end, it was true what they whispered between the streets of the city and the halls of the palace: the Vizier really had humble origins. Only someone who had gone through famine and poverty would feel the need for such talents.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, just like his omega nature (though, to be fair, from his appearance alone it was almost impossible to tell as his face, his posture and his body size all helped to speculate that he was indeed an alpha, a man) but people were wary of the subject, fearing the repercussion of “omegan moodiness” upon themselves.

However, the omega surprised him as he not try to stop Aladdin from taking the jewel back.

“I was once like you, you know”, he said with a smile, before taking a good look at him again, chuckling – a rare activity for the brooding Vizier of Agrabah but one that was dear to the omegan kind, allowing Aladdin to better recognize that designation into the man’s character-and correcting himself.

“Well, almost like you.”

He took another sip from his saddle bag, wiped his lips with the back of the same hand he used to rob Aladdin with and offered it to him.

The thief made to take it so he could gulp down some water to wash away the incredible heat and the hindrance that came with his even more astonishing gaffe before a doubt crept upon his mind; it hadn’t been too long since he learned from the women serving at the city’s _makhur_ – not in that way, of course, Aladdin had had encounters but never fully experienced the joys of lovemaking before and his envolvement with brothels extended to nothing more than occassionally working as a cleaner to gain a little more of extra coins – that a way to induce an omega’s heat faster, so that the clients might be provided with an “intensified experience” of the _makhur_’s bids, was for them to drink a mix, trasparent at first sight, made with spermaceti oil and saffron’s pollen. Could it be that that was what was held in that jug? After all, the Vizier was manifesting the early symptoms of heat, a strong and delightful scent being the first of the alerts. If so, was that a test? Or another way to humiliate him?

“Why am I here?” he demanded, cutting to the chase supposedly a little too imperatively as the omega’s odour intensified, spurred on by the alpha’s confidence.

At his refusal of water, the Vizier scrutinized Aladdin’s face, examining him, and promptely arrived to the conclusion of what was passing through the boy’s mind. He chuckled again, myrth filling his eyes before breaking into a loud, heartfelt laughter, something that gained the attention of the guards that were accompanying them, only to be dispersed thanks to the Vizier’s waving hand and a bird – a parrot – approaching towards their master’s direction, perching upon his shoulders. The Vizier scratched the beak of the beast with his left hand, a smile still adorning his features.

“Rest assured, boy. I have no desire to speed my heat. What you will find in this jug is nothing else but water.”

At Aladdin’s persistent hesitation, the Vizier sighed and took the boy’s hands into his with the most tender of gestures, placing there his saddle bag.

“Drink.”, he ordered.

So Aladdin did, probably drinking more than he should have since the Vizier’s gaze didn’t falter once, observing the thief’s every movement.

He realized he went too far, though, when he passed the water container to Abu. The bird perched upon the vizier’s right shoulder inflated its chest, batted his wings and charged towards Abu’s direction, trying to pry off the jug from the annoyed monkey’s hand.

Aladdin tried to scare the macaw away but the Vizier took the initiative first. He stood up, intent on signing an end to this surreal situation, and pried his jug from Abu’s hand, reprimanding the parrot – Iago, as his name appeared to be – back to its place, over the man’s shoulder.

The Vizier let some water slide towards the ground so that Abu could also slake his thirst but his annoyance was trasparent.

“You know, Aladdin, I didn’t think that these days the villainy of the plebs went as far as you showed me today. Not only did you pass my jug of water to a filthy primate, you also spent the last past moments acting like a wild animal, interrupting and scenting me as if I were the bitch in heat that with no doubt lives next door to you.”

Aladdin blushed, taking in the offense.

“His name is Abu.” - he tried as a line of defense from what he knew was true. He had been villanious to say the least but what the heck, the Vizier was the abductor – “And you still didn’t answer my question: Why was I brought here?”

It was probably a reckless demand; after all, the vizier’s face darkened and the frowns on his feature told Aladdin that he was certainly disturbed by his insolence. Oh, what the hell, if he wanted to execute him, he would have killed him already. That said, there were very few things an omega that was about to go into heat could want from an alpha. At least, that’s what the men down at the market always said between themselves, suspiciously making sure of not being heard by their wives.

Aladdin started to shake, bones trembling as panick surged up again.

“Calm down, boy.”, the man said, sensing his dreads, “I would never ask you to take on the task of one of my heats. An omega like me is way out of your league.”

Honestly, that hurt his pride just a little bit.

Aladdin didn’t care at all about this man, his interest laid solely in going back to Agrabah as fast as he could, so he could move past this humiliating day and try not to pay too much attention next time one of the Princess’ pursuers anchored their vessel in the port, careful to not awaken the sad knowledge that laid deep inside him: he was not worthy of the girl he liked.

Yet, the alpha side of him felt deeply offended by the Vizier’s assumption; maybe Aladdin had never bedded anyone – not at least fully – but there was no way in hell he wouldn’t be able to take care of an omega in heat, if the need ever arised. Every alpha worthy of that name was and Aladdin was already willing to admit that he wasn’t enough for the girl he believed was Dalia, so he wouldn’t certainly allow anyone to not even believe him a full man.

As a matter of fact,to hear the omega say that he would never choose him, after kidnapping him and taking him in the middle of the desert, with only two guards to check that he didn’t escape, where nobody could witness an eventual “uncomfortable” coupling in the eyes of the good-mannered aristocracy the Vizier was surrounded by, felt ludicrous.

There were very few things an omega could want from an alpha, Aladdin kept reminding himself, or at least that’s what everybody said.

Noticing Aladdin’s outrage, the Vizier couldn’t help but comply to the boy’s ruminating, sitting once again next to him so they could talk face to face.

“Look, Aladdin, I am not here to make fun of you – not completely at least – and you are certainly not here neither to be executed nor to service me with any obscene talent of yours.”

Aladdin listened carefully.

“What I am here to tell you is that you’ve stumbled upon an opportunity; what I need you to do for me is not without exchange. There is a cave nearby. In it, a simple oil lamp. Retrieve it for me and I will make you rich, so rich the Sultan will bow at your feet.”, he paused to let his words sink in, “And rich enought to impress _al-Amira_.”

The Vizier’s bird held his gaze on Aladdin firmly and as Abu clutched Aladdin’ vest, sensing the danger in the man’s words, the street thief took his little friend between his arms and directed his vision towards the man’s eyes.

They were vivid, dark deep brown stones.

Deceitful. Cunning. Ruthless. Dishonest. Those were the adjectives the townspeople had used to describe the Grand Vizier, the characteristics he had come to know him for through the ages and Aladdin too could sense the hazard in his propositions. Was he also being seduced by the sly tactics of this snake-like hermaphrodite?

Yet, Dalia’s face kept invading his every thought.

“You are nothing to her, but you could be.”

Dalia… the Hermaphrodite princess. He realized he didn’t care about any of that, omega or alpha, man or woman, what did it matter? He had appeared like the worst of bigots in front of her, he was about to break the promise to meet her again and, no matter what the Vizier had said, he knew that between him and Dalia there was a connection, something deeper; deep in his heart, he realized he knew, he knew that she wasn’t trying to make a fool out of him and somehow here he was, about to disappoint her once again.

So, even considering all that could go wrong, Aladdin couldn’t help but see another chance in the Prime Minister’s offer, his last opportunity. He could go back to her as the richest man she had ever seen and respect would be easily bought from the masses and the nobility with the display of a few golden coins. If there was something Aladdin learned in his life, something that the man awaiting an answer in front of him was confirming, was that money was always the way out, a certainty of success.

He could be worthy of her.

And wouldn’t an hermaphrodite know what another hermaphrodite would want?

Aladdin straightened himself, licked the corners of his mouth and inhaled the Vizier’s omega scent one last time, before the frenzy of hormones could reach him in places he didn’t want to uncover.

“Where is this cave you are talking about?”

A smile made its way on the Vizier’s features.

“Until… I can find my way… to you.”

With that last note, Rajah fell asleep, her furry head resting over Jasmine’s right thigh as her owner gently lulled her to the realm of dreams with a song and a soft hand caressing her mane. Did tigers even dream? Jasmine knew, watching Rajah’s face contort in slight frowns and grimaces, that that had to be the case.

A small consolation that of knowing at least one of them was living a dream.

Jasmine guessed, bathed in the light of the high, majestic white moon, the one her mother had taught her to sing about – _“You see, my love, every girl must look up to that regal lady you see towering over the stars and the clouds: light, clear and transparent, her presence a hidden secret that manifests itself in all its brightness through the darkest moments of the day, when it is most needed”_ \- that the boy, Aladdin, wasn’t going to come.

“Well”, she thought as she sighed after taking a good look at herself, clothed by the most precious and beautiful dress that found home in her vast wardrobe just to impress a man that didn’t show up, “I knew the past few hours were too good to last.”

First, Aladdin had come back to her, waltzing into the palace as if he owned the place, risking lashes on his backside and possibly jail just to surpise her and return her mother’s bracelet, promising to come back the night after. Then, she managed to avoid Jafar for the entirety of the next day, not having to meet him even during meals, when her father requested both of his hermaphrosites to dine together with him. Apparently, he had been delayed on an urgent matter in the _bazaar_, something that antagonised her spirit. He was tormenting some poor street vendors no doubt. And yet, she couldn’t help to feel relieved, even happy, awaiting for dusk to come like a creature of the night (“Ah, _Al- Leil_, how beautiful your starry sky is!”, she had thought that same evening, when the sun had finally sunk into the horizon). And, predictably, in the end she had been let down. Like always.

She was embittered, but _Al- Amira_ was not one to cry.

Some said it was because of her alpha-like attitude. Some said she was just heartless.

Jasmine believed the latter to be the case: she hadn’t shed a single tear when her mother had died, not even after seeing her porcelain-like body torn by the cruel lunges of multiple daggers, her last expression on her face defined by a stream of blood coughed up by her mouth and high pupils, sign that at the last moment she had welcomed like a bliss the sweet relief of death from the agony she had been put through.

Baba, though, Baba had screamed from the top of his lungs the most inhumane sounds Jasmine ever heard coming from anything or anyone. He had yelled at everybody in the room, torn the clothes out of his chest and bursted in the most desperate cry of pain Jasmine felt she would ever hear in her entire life. That hadn’t been alpha-like at all. He had then tightly clung to Jasmine’s arms, so strong that she believed the tracks of his hands would stay there forever as bruises, and told her how much she resembled her mother, apologizing for his beaviour and compliantly resuming control as snot and tears invaded the outlines of his beard and face.

After it was all over, when her mother’s body had been rightfully treated to resume a little bit of her lively beauty so that she could be swiftly buried the next day and her father had been put to rest, _al- Amira_ had gone back to her chambers. There, Dalia had been awaiting her with a warm bath and a hot tea.

Oh, her sweet, gentle, lovely Dalia whose name Jasmine had stolen!

She was always there for her.

That night, Jasmine had stayed silent, overtaken by shock - her wide-eyed expression a proof of that - as Dalia gently washed her body from the tenacity of all of her father’s secretions. She hadn’t tried to make her speak, she hadn’t looked down on her like everybody else had done for her missed tears; she only stayed there, patiently waiting for her to fall asleep which she was set on making happen through caressing her forehead and singing.

They probably would have married in another life, Jasmine thought, in a world where _al-Amira_ was _al-Amir_.

It was almost funny, now that she focused on it: she was fantasizing about marrying Dalia mere moments after a man had rejected her.

Maybe she really was heartless. She didn’t care about anyone, she only cared as long as someone entertained her.

_“You know that is not true.”_, Dalia had told her when Jasmine found the courgae to confess her dreads to her, after her mother had been buried.

_“Am I a horrible person for not crying?”_, Jasmine had asked, avoiding the real question she really wanted to express: “Am I broken?”

After all, she knew what people were saying: that her incapacity to display emotions was only the result of alpha and omega hormones mixing together to create a devastatingly disfunctional human child.

_“You have suffered much, Amira.”_ Dalia had said, _“To me, your composure is nothing more than proof of your generosity and piety. You are truly a queen. Even in sorrow, your strength does not falter.”_

How much her words had touched her, Jasmine’s pride was not willing to admit. Not even to a friend. Not even to herself.

_“How can you be sure?”_, Jasmine had interjected, _“Maybe I am just using your words as an excuse to better hide my true nature.”_

Then, Dalia’s eyes had filled with unshed tears, a substitute for unspoken compassion, so she arched her lips into a smile and laughed. She shook her head and regained her composure; her usual smile – saddened by the princess’ own words - conquering yet again her features.

_“Even the Grand Vizier recognized your strength.”_, she had said, _“I heard him before speaking to the Sultan; he said that if it were not for you and your capacity to lift spirits up the Sultan would be dead.”_

Jasmine had frowned: she had never fully accepted that man and she doubted he felt anything different - the first time they had met, Jasmine had been five, and Jafar had looked down on her like she was the worst of hindrances, an expression of disgust taking over his then beardless face – so his so-called “support” couldn’t move her any less.

_“How dare he speak like that to Baba in the first place. That is his Sultan. A lot of people would give their lives just to be in his presence and he takes advantage of my father’s trust in him to mock his pain.”_ Jasmine had replied.

Dalia had lifted her arms in the air as if to say, “You got me. I shouldn’t have talked about him after your mother’s death” but she carried on anyway.

_“My Lady, you shouldn’t be so harsh with him. You two resemble each other in more ways than you might guess or believe. And I’m not talking about your gender.”_

Jasmine had pouted then and Dalia chuckled in response, saying that it was the exact same way the Omegan Grand Vizier usually brooded.

The conversation had died there but Jasmine really couldn’t bring herself to believe or think that they might somehow be similar.

Yes, they were both hermaphrodites, but what else was there? They barely tolerated each other in the presence of her father – just the day before they were willing to fight to the death in front of him. And the worst of it all was that the Vizier actually believed he held any right to tell her what to do, to “advise” her, as he liked to put it.

She couldn’t really tell if that was because he too – like Dalia – believed they were similar and thought of himself as a hermaphrodite with more experience (something he loved to talk about, his experience) or because of…

Jasmine shook her head and willingly interrupted her train of thoughts. She had already been though enough today, she didn’t need to awaken “unpleasant” memories.

Set on getting up slowly as to not wake Rajah, the Princess districated herself from the heaviness of her friend’s limbs, her mind once again wandering to the thief she had met at the market.

It just seemed unreal that he wouldn’t show up after coming back for her. He was the one who had looked for her, she had already resigned upon loosing her mother’s bracelet, Jafar’s warning pounding into her mind like a hammer, “The outside is dangerous”. Why taking all those risks just to return it if he didn’t like her? Could it be that he just pitied her?

Maybe that was it. He had felt guilty about stealing a token from her deceased mother and believed to cleanse his conscience through exchanging the subject of his booty.

In the end, nobody truly wanted her for what she was even when pretending to be someone else. She felt so stupid for just hoping in it.

So, the connection she had felt between them had been as fake as the name she had used to deceive him.

As she settled upon going to bed and trying to shake off anguish from her soul, she took notice of an approaching retinue: it was a small delegation but they were silently marching towards Agrabah’s Palace. Who could it be so late in the night? They must have been friendly if the guards at the city’s doors let them through, but it was weird for a prince to come seek the princess’hand in marriage knowing that someone else was already trying to win her attentions (Good luck with that). And at this time of the night. It was peculiar if not downright weird.

She grabbed a torch and approached the balcony. She waited there until she could clearly see the banner they were carrying.

An aqua stone encarved in a golden and silvery solar crown.

Sherabad was at the gates of Agrabah.

The tremors of the land were something Aladdin had not yet become familiar with and planned to never experience again, especially now that the earth was threatening to swallow him whole.

As he put all his energy into trying to hold on as best as he could to the rocks he had clung to, after being thrown from the flying carpet (a flying carpet!) directly into the face of the stone walls of the cave -a result of having miscalculated the trajectory that would lead him to the opening - Aladdin could feel the surging heat of the lava under him, that was threatening to reach the level of his legs in less then the period of time Abu, that was still resting on his shoulder, loyal as ever, would take to reach the safe soil above them.

He desperately looked up at the Vizier who, untouchable both in his body and soul, towered over them, as if the spewing fire generated by the earthy mouth of Satan had nothing to do with him.

For God’s sakes, he was the one who brought Aladdin to this blasted cave in the first place and now he was standing there like an idiot, an oblivious look embedded in his face.

“Could you give me a hand?!?” Aladdin said with a strained yet polite voice that he didn’t know he could master. A part of him just wanted to scream at the man the most vulgar words and insults he could think of, the other part of him thought he shouldn’t, not even in these circumstances.

Oh, well, maybe he wasn’t beyond correction, after all.

It was a good thing to know when facing death. Maybe the Angels would spare him a glance before sentencing him to hell for his crimes.

But then the Grand Vizier started ranting about the lamp.

The lamp first, then I will help you.

The lamp, the lamp, the lamp. Take it, if that’s what you want, you mad man!

So Aladdin passed him the lantern and what he saw before finally descending in the sea of lava that was boiling just for him and his friends was a wicked smile and a cruel foot placing its crushing weight upon his hand.

Aladdin couldn’t take it anymore. He let go and in the last moments prior to slipping into uncosciousness, the adrenaline and desperation made him grasp in an ultimate effort to save himself and Abu from certain death the wicked man’s robe.

Aladdin didn’t know what happened after. He only knew, as he was falling, that at least his murderer would perish with him, his black figure an imposing shadow over his eyes as he too fell from the mouth of the cave.

He smelled of omega.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we finally got here, phew! From this point on I hope I'll be able to alter the storyline properly according to the mood, I already have a couple of ideas and need to choose. Let me know what you guys think, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. 
> 
> By the way, here are some translations:
> 
> * Nuafidh Aleadl – The Windows of Justice  
* Makhur – House of Pleasure, Whorehouse, Brothel  
* Al-Amira – The Princess  
*Bazaar – Market  
* El-Leil – The Night
> 
> I hope I got everything right, for some things I had to use Google Translate :P.
> 
> See you soon!


	5. The Darkest Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again, I finally made it! I should warn you that this chapter contains my first attempt at writing erotic scenes and that they are pretty explicit (at least in my opinion, :P). As usual, I hope you guys enjoy it and please let me know what you think :). See the end of the chapter for notes regarding translation and names!

_When he opened his eyes, Jafar’s first thoughts had been of shock, a reaction to the knowledge that he was still alive. Prone to the ground, lying to the level of sand and dust as the impetous battle carried on – his defeated body not even worth as a visual distraction for those for which war and death had become a companion of honour – Jafar’s mind couldn’t help but fall into a state of complete detachment from reality, as everything surrounding him acquired a new speed, a new feel, a new sound. It was almost as if the world had become a display, a theatre piece meant solely for his view as movements became more erratic, the smell of dust, sweat and blood attached itself to his tongue, sounds deadened and images blurred. _

_He turned his head around, trying to assert the gravity of the situation._

_He had fallen from his horse after a clash with the enemies’ cavalry, his spear shattering into thousands of minuscule wooden splinters- but not before sinking its peak into one of the commanders’ flesh and heart, whose corpse Jafar could glimpse from the peripheral view his dishevelled helmet allowed, horribly mauled by the trajectory of the lance – just like the man christians venerated as Bulus was unsaddled before the gates of Damascus, the place of his epiphany; just like Dhul-Qarnayn fell from his horse at Jawjamila, before being rescued by one his loyals._

_To think that now it was none other than Iskandar himself looking down on him from the emblem he had been etched into, his two-horned head a proud sign of self-attributed greatness that the Amir of Nahr recognized in his own self, a reason because of which he had decided that that had to become his coat of arms that every general of his must wear upon their golden – and heavy, non practical for war – armor, mocking his arrogance as Jafar had believed that halting Nahr’s march towards their dam (one of Agrabah’s few sources of sweet water coming from the oasis of the desert) would have been like stealing candy from a child._

_So, maybe it was appropriate that later on, after the battle had finished and his place at the Palace was secured as both the Grand Vizier and a Royal Omega (the latter of which a sentence to imprisonment yet again), Jafar would start recognizing himself in Bulus instead. Surely, a wicked version the one he decided to sport, but it was unified to its original source thanks to the fall: just like Bulus, it had taken a fall from a horse to be awakened from his state of slumber and stasis so that he could finally aim towards his real destiny. _

_As blurred out thoughts invaded his troubled mind, Jafar started to notice the pounding he felt in his left leg. It was strong, persistent and he thought to himself - as his senses slowly came back after his shock and the bouncing became painful - that maybe the blow from the fall had been so rapid and so strong to completely dissest the position of his organs in his body. Who knows, maybe his heart was now in his leg. _

_He had seen something like that once, when he used to live in Sherabad, many years ago, when he was still a poor boy, resorting to going to the local House of the Poor to beg for some food for him and his drunken father. There, they also kept the most abominable, deformed creatures the sons of Adam had ever seen (and, if Jafar had presented as omega just a couple of years before, he probably would have been imprisoned there as well) and one of the less terrifying beings that lived in there was a little girl, a cheerful blue eyed little lady whose heart found its place in her hand, growing larger as her body matured. _

_Was she even still alive? _

_Whatever, it was not the biggest of Jafar’s concerns at that moment._

_The physician in one of those houses had once told him that bones in the body were actually vivid, sensible matter, as he tried to readjust Jafar’s father’s femur back into its place, the severe injury a form of warning that his detractors oh-so-kindly bestowed upon him. _

_Apparently, it had taken the memory of his gambling father for Jafar to realize that the pounding in his leg was indeed a broken bone._

_Raising himself as best as he could, propping himself up upon one of his elbows, Jafar used the other arm to uncover his left side from the black mantle he was used to wear now that he had been proclaimed general and asserted once and for all the poor state he was in: his calf bone had dislocated and pierced the meat in his leg so that it was now standing partially outside his epidermis._

_Nausea seized his senses as the smell of his torn flesh and vivid blood finally hit his nose in full._

_“I will never walk again.”, Jafar thought to himself as he spared the glance at the battlefield he was currently laying on, ready to soon become one of its victims through its mercilles clash of armies, “It is over for me.”_

_No. He wouldn’t die here._

_He wouldn’t waste this occasion to further the scope of his power in the midst of the Royal Retinue. _

_Not after all he’d done._

_He reminded himself that it wasn’t certainly his first time facing a severe injury. He had been whipped in Sherabad, tortured in its prisons and mauled by years and years of war; the scars on his body a proud testament of his career._

_This was no time to act like an omega._

_He had little time to think; his horse had escaped, ran off to somewhere only Allah knew, the enemy was gaining soil and his reputation was about to be sullied by something he had never experienced before in his life as a military advisor to the Sultan of Agrabah: a defeat._

_“Look at the new Al-Agribah-al- Arab, my Sultan.”, one of the sovereign’s trusted advisors had told him while praising Jafar’s achievements, “Truly, a rightful successor to your throne.”_

_Those words had kept him awake for nights and nights. _

_He, the Sultan’s successor? By the means of adoption?_

_Surely, why not? _

_He had been proven to be talented, useful and loyal. _

_Maybe, he could surpass the shame of this “omega” affair; maybe he could save the country and prove with this victory against that lascivious asshole of Nahr that he was indeed a true man. _

_A worthy heir for the kingdom of Agrabah. The talented adopted son of _ _Hamed Bobolonius II._

_He could still overturn the situation to his advantage; everybody believed him dead there, as it was custom for a lying body on the ground that, if it wasn’t a corpse yet, would soon be finished off by the merciless kicks and the impetous marching of warriors. _

_So he rose from the ground, as much as his injured leg allowed him to, and – displaying a strength of will that only few possesed, an endurance that only Fatimah could rival – Jafar ripositioned the exposed fibula back into his place, tearing his muscles in the process. He then grabbed the nearest sword available and directed himself towards the unaware Amir of Nahr, who was intent on “fighting” with the swingings of his sword from the secured space of his war carriage the infantry men of Agrabah. _

_He marched on from behind him, each step a seething pain that reminded him of the first night of his heat, an agony that pretty much settled the fact that he would never walk again as he used to (“But who cares”, he thought to himself while trying to repress tears, “I can always have a walking stick made”) and, just like that, Jafar reached his target. _

_Swiftly, he dunked the iron of his weapon into the unprotected ass of the greasy pig whose delusions of grandeur were responsible of his humiliation and his injured limb…_

But It sooned dawned on him, after his eyes fully adjusted to the new darkness around him, that this time he wasn’t defending any dam, that the light-colored dust of the desertic valley he had fought in countless of times had been replaced by the dark-blue shades of lavic stone; the only bright colour that came out of this oppressive view was that of golden settings, imbossed into the surface of the walls, as the fast-drying lava of the Cave of Wonders had swallowed its own riches. Gold, emerald, sapphires, rubies and silver were all lost to the rage of the lion-mouthed living hole, which entrails were hungry for the soft meat of infedels.

Yet, the pain in his leg was pretty much the same as that time in the desert had been. Slowly, Jafar’s limbs rose from the ground and as his dishevelled head piece fell down upon the floor, he moved his robes to reveal his once again injured leg. It was covered by the loose black pantaloons he always wore under his most refined garments and, even though the bone wasn’t in full display this time, Jafar could tell just by scratching his joints that it had to be broken again.

This time around, he probably wouldn’t regain the sensitivity to his leg just by excersising through time.

And that also hadn’t helped him fully recover.

His golden serpent staff hadn’t been made out of a simple whim, but for a real necessity: it had been born as a luxurious walking stick to soon become an instrument of hypnosis.

He passed his hands on his face, sligthly scratched his neck and started searching for the afore mentioned rod. Maybe it wouldn’t give him back his waling ability, but it had helped him once, it could be useful again.

Unfortunately, it was already extremely difficult for him to move due to his injury and his sight was considerably affected by the lack of light inside the cave.

He assumed a sitting position over one of the protrusions that the solidifying lava had formed and, basking in thoughts of his own solitude, Jafar squinted his eyes in the hopes of being able to recognize his snake-like rod, etched somewhere in the walls that kept him trapped.

The staff was nowhere to be found.

Probably the cave mistook it for one of its riches and decided to nestle it inside its own walls, as well as the sinful humans who had tried to rob it.

Speaking of ungrateful humans: Aladdin.

He could see the boy laying on the ground just a couple of feet away from him, his chest rising and falling, he too apparently miracolously alive.

Next to him, his dirty primate was doing its best in trying to revive his owner, the lamp still clutched under one of its armpits.

It didn’t seem to have noticed Jafar at all, who also wondered the fate of Iago.

Was he swallowed by the sea of fire as well?

Jafar could have sworn to have seen the bird parting from his shoulder at the exact right moment, before his master collapsed into the cave.

Maybe, he had gone back to Agrabah to call for help, a hypothesis that Jafar wasn’t keen to cheer on as good news. He didn’t have any explanation for his night excursion – something that he bet the Sultan was not willing to pass over since it involved both the idea of his Royal Omega being alone at night protected by just two eunuchs (oh yes, in order to allow Jafar the liberty of personal guards the Sultan had ordered them castrated) and in the company of an astray alpha, as well as the evidence of treason, as he would soon discover once at the mouth of the cave.

Besides, how would they even retrieve him from here?

These were the questions that kept harassing his thoughts as he realized that there was only one way out of the cave.

Slowly, careful as not to be heard or noticed by the blasted monkey, Jafar dragged himself upon his elbows over the stone ground and silently approached the boy’s unconscious form.

To be truthful, he was bitter about the idea of wasting one of his wishes over a matter that could have been easily avoided if that rat had just stuck to resigning to his deathly fate, if that monkey hadn’t been there. After all, even if Jafar did fulfill his promise to make him rich, he also very much doubted that the behaviour of a plebeian would be easily changed overnight, simply by providing him with money.

But Alas! Necessity comes first. And how easy it was to get rid of the monkey, even with an injured leg, hit him by surprise. He simply took it by its tail, pried the lamp out of its paws and violently threw it in the direction of the nearest boulder in sight, causing it to loose consciousness just as its owner. Had he seriously been put into this situation by such a small primate?

Now, next to him, the source of his troubles layed in a state of comatose slumber, defenseless to any form of attack. He briefly wondered if he should stab the boy with the dagger he always carried with himself, ending his life once and for all but realized that bloodshed could be avoided by simply abandoning him, once Jafar had made his first wish and, more importantly, he couldn’t feel the knife anywhere on him. Probably, that too had been mistaken for one of the assets of the cave.

However, for all the plans and options that Jafar could have thought of, he didn’t take into account the smell of alpha becoming suddenly more intense, hitting him in full power as more liquid trickled down his legs, out of his twitching vulva.

When they were in the desert, previously, Jafar had noticed that the boy had had this effect on him -he was an alpha, after all - but now a deeper, stranger, warmer feeling pervaded his body and panic seized his soul as the revelation of what was happening finally dawned on him.

No. It couldn’t be.

Not now that he was so close to finally fulfilling his desires…

Driven by haste, Jafar rubbed the lamp and the sight of the gigantic blue creature that he acknowledged to be the legendary wish-granting Jinn proved to be enough to worsen the state of his anxiety and yet not enough to stop the course of fate.

As Jafar listened to the unexpectedly cheerful Jinn’s words, an oath to obey and serve, his body’s temperature came close to that of a furnace.

It felt like something had opened inside him – precisely in his womb, which seemed to be experiencing the unpredictable twirls and violent shocks of a vortex - like his internal organs had all been contaminated with some sort of parasite made of fire, which flames finally bursted to the surface of his body.

Each one of his limbs had become numb as tremors and fire took over every single piece of his muscles, his skin, his genitalia: his nipples suddenly stood completely upright, as an insufferable itch started to pervade him, forcing him to ignore the cosmical phenomen he had searched for for so long to take care of them.

He tried to mantain a semblance of dignity by refusing to disrobe.

Even if in front of a servant – for that the Jinn was, a mere tool, a slave that would provide him with his needings as long as they got out of the cave first and the cosmic being stopped looking at him so confused, almost as if in his ascertained thousands of years of life he had never encountered an omega in heat – Jafar would not give in to the temptation of undressing so that his body would cool down, and allow shame to take over his soul once his mind was lucid again.

So, still dressed, he took one of his nipples between his right thumb and index finger and started to slowly stroke it, an operation that by itself alone almost brought Jafar to completion.

He became so easy to satisfy once the heat started. 

As a matter of fact, the effect of the nipple play had him bent over in two just in a couple of twirls as his dick fastly erected and the flow of slick from his vagina – now bright red and translucid, tormented by an itch similar to that of his nipples – broke into a torrent.

It was bad. It was really, really bad.

This time more than others for the only useful remedy to his torments layed comatose just next to him, his alpha scent spurring on Jafar’s desire.

As the way too diligent blue jinn hovered above his prone figure, directing words at him that Jafar couldn’t fully make out but that had probably something to do with getting out of the cave, or what he needed or wished to do now that he was going through his heat, the Vizier found himself being drawn to Aladdin more and more each passing minute.

He truly had a pretty face. A handsome visage.

Jafar crawled to the boy, trying to get as close as he considered appropriate and thought – while struggling to release his penis from the confinements of his heavy and oh now -so-hot robes - that it wouldn’t hurt to stay in the cave just a little bit longer, to better enjoy the scent of an alpha.

Like this, maybe this hellish event would be over in just a quick handjob time and his lustful behaviour would soon abate, leaving space to his usually composed and lucid mind.

Once he got his own shaft into his hand, while the right one resumed the stimulation of his right nipple – an operation that was simply bliss for any omega - Jafar found himself rutting over the boy’s prone body, trying to ignore as best as he could the horrified jinn still hovering atop of him and the premises of this ridicolous situation.

He took in a deep breath and realized that the alpha scent was already doing its magic; he felt more relieved, lulled, and his lips parted in a sigh of appreciation that soon turned into an effort to seal his mouth over that of the boy in a stolen kiss.

Bu things never went his way and this moment of blissful release couldn’t last, not before and not now: Aladdin’s eyelids slowly parted in a full blown stare of bewilderment.

* * *

When she was a child, Jasmine used to climb up trees. It was her favourite outdoors activity, the most satisfying game she ever played. It took courage, or at least she thought, to rise from the ground to reach the star pointing branches of the secular myrtles and palm trees that resided in the Palace’s gardens, so that she could better look at the sky and its shiny inhabitants. Of course, other children liked to play this game too - mostly if not only boys, as she later realized when thinking back on it – but she had been the fastest, the one who could reach the highest peaks and she remembered being looked at by the other children, hidden through the strong branches of the trees, with wonder and admiration.

It was in those moments that Jasmine truly realized what it meant to be a sovereign: to inspire, to guide, to be responsible for others’ admiration.

And that’s how she felt, when she was up there; looking at the sky over the foliage she had surpassed with her tiny feet and agile limbs, a terrified and younger Dalia on the ground – a wide eyed, spirited fourteen year old girl, a stattering mess - trying to convince her to hike down, _al-Amira_ felt like a leader of myth, ready to direct her army of tiny admirors to the conquest of the unknown world, just like _Iskandar_ had done.

But then, one day, like all things enjoyable, it had to finish.

When Jasmine was twelve years old and her body started to develop, two small breasts now growing over her flat chest, as her waist and hips became rounder and rounder each passing day, her mother – Queen Pareerou – came to her chambers once and prohibited her, with the softest of the voices, to climb ever again.

_“My love”_, she had said while gently stroking her soft black hair, _“It is not appropriate for a princess to hang over the branches of trees as if she was a savage, a monkey.”_

She had paused to better reflect on the next words to use, careful as not to let too much of the malice her thoughts were soaked in to get through to her pubescent little girl.

_“It is also not adequate for a girl your age to engage in such bodily-revealing activities, some might believe you to be indiscreet.”_

But what could a child understand of the malice that resided in the adults’ hearts? To Jasmine, climbing up the trees was simply a game, something that allowed her mind to wonder to different-looking kingdoms and worlds. She would have understood what her mother meant with time but time also taught her that that was the beginning of the restrictions she would have to go through as a woman. Then, as none of the subsequent revelations mattered, as an alpha woman.

Be kind, polite, composed.

Do not climb, because such a sport reveals the most obscene parts of the body of a woman, because it allows her too much freedom.

And that, well, that is simply unsightly.

She didn’t take it well – to say the least - and next thing they knew, Jasmine was once again running from her nannies, a sword she had stolen from one of the guards in her hand, as she climbed over the palace pillars.

Her mother had come to the scene, her clothes clearly put on as hastily as she could, her wet hair a sign that she had been taking a bath, and asked Jasmine – with her always soft voice as she had never seen her mother angry – what she was doing.

_“If I can’t climb trees, Mama-jan”_, Jasmine had loudly proclaimed, so that everybody could hear her from above, _“I will climb the ones that find place in our palace: the pillars encarved with wooden branches and flowers.”_

And, before someone made her come down from where she was perched, Jasmine saw her mother’s grimace of confusion turn into a smile, something akin to pride filling her eyes. She had really been blessed with a smart little girl.

“I got you, Mother”, Jasmine had thought, “I too, can be cunning.”

She had kept her promise. Until she eventually got tired of it, Jasmine hiked every single one of the columns of the Royal Palace of Agrabah, their every detailed carving etching into the wooden surface of her mind as well, as her memory collected the finished mental mapping of their design.

What nostalgia the palace’s carvings brought to her soul! Gliding her index finger over their smooth and intricate surface always brought back memories of her mother, of her happy childhood before the dooming revelation of being an alpha. Even now that she had reached adulthood, now that she was spying on her father’s state affairs encounter from a crack in the semiclosed wooden doors of his study, Jasmine couldn’t help the thrill of remembering to spare her mind.

Dalia had previously tried to whisk her away from there (“You shouldn’t be here”, she said, “Night has fallen from a few hours now and dawn will soon be upon us again, you can hear about the meeting tomorrow mornig at breakfast.”) but soon gave up on and went to the princess’chambers to prepare her bed, hoping that she would soon get tired and take her advice. However, after the Sherabad’s delegation that got to their gates when the moon was already high in the sky revealed itself to be a party formed to announce the sudden death of their Sultan, whose heir, prince Tuhain – her cousin from her mother’s brother, the deceased leprous Vikram – had joined into, so that he could personally deliver the bad news and receive condolences, Jasmine swiftly opted for a change of robes, preferring to dress her more comfortable green night gown, that matched with a very similar shaded loose pantaloon that she wore underneath, her mane combed into one tress.

As memories of her mother already floated in her psyche, Jasmine also recalled the time her Mama-jan spoke about her own homeland, with special regards to her dear brother Vikram.

_“He was always sick”_, she told her, a look of mourning settling upon her features, _“and his vulnerability allowed the scourge to take over his body very early on in his life. We knew he wouldn’t survive long – he too was aware of that – and Father decided that the best thing for all of us, our dinasty, our kindom, would be that he found wife soon, so that – if Allah, in His great generosity and piety would have allowed – he might seer a heir for Sherabad, before he parted. It was a devastating choice for my father and yet he knew it to be the best. When Tuhain was born and most importantly he was healthy we were all greatly overjoyed. Vikram’s eyes finally shined again of a light I didn’t see in them since the plague settled upon him. Vikram loved his boy and his boy loved him. Thankfully, they were at least given some time together before the Revolt broke out.”_

And that part of the story was the one that, no matter how many times she pronounced, always filled her eyes with tears and made her break into weeping.

_“Poor Brother of Mine, the stress of ruling was too much for him and the Market’s Insurrection – when he wrongly thought he had come to terms with the rebellious subjects – was too much for him to bear. He was such a kind heart and couldn’t bear to be betrayed by those treacherous, lying rats that had him publicly humiliated by uncovering his disfigured visage, believing it would prove their point once and for all that Vikram was not fit to rule. After my father’s armies took care of them, the plague completely took over Vikram’s body and spirit; my poor brother died of sadness. Tuhain was never the same afterwards.”_

Jasmine never fully found out what the Market’s Insurrection was: her father was wary of the subject, her mother plagued by the painful memories it brought to the surface and Jafar simply looked annoyed when someone spoke about it. She would have normally tried to find out by herself by wandering through the shelves of the palace library – where she often unwillingly met Jafar – to search for the right history book but the delicacy of the matter always made her shy back. Even she had limits. And she didn’t know if to feel proud or ashamed of that.

Yet, Prince Tuhain – now Sultan Tuhain III Nili’am Akham of Sherabad, named after their common grandfather – was here and Jasmine somehow felt drawn to the cousin she had never met before, as if she felt that he could be the tell-tale of the truth she had been seeking for so long. What was the Revolt? What is Sherabad like? What are the precepts a ruler worthy of this name must follow?

From the small crack she had approached to - the guards posted at the doors unable to tell their _Amira_ anything that would convince her to stop peeping - Jasmine saw the low lights generated by the chandeliers in the room descending upon her father and Tuhain, highlighting the shades of their attires.

Baba had already gone to sleep before Tuhain’s arrival, that much Jasmine could tell. Not only was his greying hair exposed - nothing but a _taqiyah_ upon his scalp - he was also wearing his usual white prayer tunic, a refined yet modest fabric that allowed him to recite the nightly _salat_ with as much humility as possible for a royal, the prayer Jasmine had yet to deliver as she was too busy entertaining herself with thoughts of Aladdin. Oh well, she would recuperate the next night.

Tuhain, instead, was dressed in the waterlike green that was the color of Sherabad; his pristine garments, that looked untouched by the indelicacies of a desert journey, decorated with a starry-like silver pattern that extended from the top of his right shoulder to the left one in a wide semicirlce that recalled the hanging of the golden rope that tied the ends of his white mantle, which he had discarded to a servant alongside his aqua-stone peppered ivory turban, to sit more comfortably.

He too was wearing a long tunic but as it was fashion for those of her mother’s kingdom (a style that Jasmine soon adopted as she recongized it to be more comfortable), this one would stop some inches below the knee – in Tuhain’s case with another decorated pattern of starry-like silver sowings – to reveal a loose white pantaloon and deliciously tailored silk slipperies, aqua-coloured too.

As Jasmine soon noticed, Tuhain’s face looked fresh, almost young: his eyes were vivid, lively and curious as those of a deer and they felt like two big black stones had been inserted as wide as possible inside his skull; his cheekbones were fair, a promise of roundness etched in them, while his lips were thin yet full and brightly pink. His hair was short, black as his eyes and his beard that, though not that thick, still granted his persona a dignified, noble aura.

She briefly wondered if that’s how her father looked like, many years ago, when he was still a prince…

Yet, Tuhain couldn’t be that young; her mother once unexpectedly informed her, caught in an argument with her Baba, that he was older than Jafar. Jasmine recalled the argument being about choosing Jafar over Tuhain as the lead of the troops against the Amir of Nahr.

_“He is too young”_, her mother had said, her kind soul always preoccupied with who didn’t deserve her attentions, _“Younger than Tuhain and a hermaphrodite at that! Do you want to see him raped by Nahr’s men after they destroy our defenses? Is this what you’re looking for?”_

Her father didn’t want to continue the conversation and left. He felt it was inappropriate for Jasmine to hear about such monstrousities. And yet, Jasmine’s mother never shied away from confronting her father, from getting word into his political decisions and thought that Jasmine needed to know as well.

How contradictory her mother was!

She didn’t want her to climb on a tree and yet she wanted her to participate in affairs that – as the law decreed – were not meant for women.

_“You’ll soon see, my dear, that some statements are just an illusion, a travesty to hide an uncomfortable reality, one that some people don’t have the courage or the will to acknowledge.”_, her mother had said that day.

_“It is also why Jafar shouldn’t be part of the defense this time. The just laws of war state that a man shall not force a woman and yet, in reality, this is the greatest pleasure the victorious men take out of the conquered: To feel an omega as belonging completely to them, a very special kind of spoil of war. And Jafar will be the centre of their attention.”_

Speaking of Jafar, the real surprise that night was that he still hadn’t shown up once heard of the arrival of prince Tuhain. Jasmine half expected him to creep up upon her at any moment now, forcefully whisking her away from the doors, that he would undoubtedly close as tight as possible.

“I am sorry to hear about your loss, Tuhain.”, Baba expressed his commiseration, “But you are now Sultan of Sherabad. As it was for me and for every man whose rise to power requires another’s departure, these occasions are both extremely painful and incredibly joyful. I am sure your grandfather, my father-in-law, can now reach the flowery gates of the Gardens of Heaven peacefully, knowing he left his kingdom in your hands. We all know you will live up to the title of the Nila Dinasty.”

Tuhain toyed a little with the glass of tea he had been offered (as Sherabadian people were extremely wary of alcohol, which in their country was forbidden) and responded to her father’s speech with the most indefferent voice he could muster:

“Thank you for you kind words, dear Uncle. However, it is not the departure of an old warmonger that brings agitation over my weary soul. It is knowing that no relative of mine is able to assist to the glorious continuation of our family’s rule. My joy, as you can tell, is very much limited.”

“Your Aunt Pareerou would have been very happy for you.”, her father said with a broken voice. And it was probably the low lights of the candle, probably the words that arrived to her as silent whispers from afar, that almost made her see her father’s eyes filling with tears, only to reassume their severity mere moments later.

“My father would have been very happy for me, too.”, Tuhain proclaimed while looking directly in front of him, to the doors. Was he aware of Jasmine’s presence behind them?

Whatever the answer may have been, he sported a small smile upon his features and turned to question her father.

“Where is that hermaphrodite of yours, by the way? I have heard many things about the creature.”

Jasmine’s eyes widened in shock while her father’s frown became deeper, a grimace of horror taking place over his lips. What the hell was Tuhain implying?

The new Sultan of Sherabad appeared confused and he soon realized how much his words could be misenterpreted, so he deepened his smile and corrected himself.

“I am talking about the one you made your Vizier, Hamed. I would never talk of my cousin - a princess - in that way. I am sure she must be an extraordinary young lady.”

She wasn’t exactly sure that the fact that he was actually talking about Jafar reassured her in any way, but nonetheless she kept listening.

“He should be here any moment but, please, do not refer to him as “that hermaphrodite of mine”. There are reasons I made him my Vizier.”

Tuhain scoffed, looking amused.

“I’m sure that is the case. Yet, if you were looking for an omega, you could have at least chosen a normal one. Or at least not a plebeian. Rest assured that he will jump at your throat at the first sign of vulnerability to take you down.”

“You have never even met him.”

“I don’t need to. That’s just how his kin naturally behaves: they are animals, predatory-like in their instincts. They will attach theirselves as leeches to any hand that nourishes them and revolt against it as soon as it’s convenient. Their only objective, mark my words, is to eat each time more and more. You shouldn’t have allowed him to enter the midst of the fine people that find home in the Palace.”

It was incredible for Jasmine how her father, usually so commanding and immovable, could easily be turned into a murmuring brooding child in front of other royalty, especially Sherabadian royalty, that looked to have a particular grip upon his uncertainties; maybe a legacy of her late mother.

He wasn’t even objecting to Tuhain’s statement and Jasmine knew her father didn’t think, or at least didn’t expect, that Jafar might be that way.

Truth to be told, Jasmine did see Jafar as a predatory creature but she doubted it had anything to do with his humble background.

For example, Dalia wasn’t like that at all; yet they were both omega and used to be destituted.

Tuhain chuckled, obviously amused by her father’s incapacity to muster back an argument, and spoke yet again vile words.

“Unless, my dear Uncle, after the departure of my Aunt you are finally trying to breed a proper alpha, even if with an unlikely bearer.”

Jasmine was baffled; this man she had never once met in her life had entered their home less than two hours ago and yet he was already taking liberties in his speech that were way beyond any bond of familiarity. First, he questioned the Sultan of another country’s choices of cabinet and then he even insinuated his fetishistic depravity.

Yet, it took a while for the meaning of Tuhain’s mischievous assumption to dawn on him. When that happened, her Baba’s eyes widened in shock, a sentiment that was mirrored over his lips, split wide open in a grimace of disapproval.

Finally, her father’s words became more severe, as it was appropriate for the situation and Tuhain’s disrespectful assumptions.

“Tuhain, I am happy you chose to come to me first between your allies to inform me of your father’s death and I’m happy for your rise to the throne, but I will not allow you to make lurid assumptions over my relationship with the Grand Vizier. To suggest that I would take advantage of his… “sexual handicap” is beyond offensive.”

“Sexual handicap is a very mild term to indicate that he’s a man with a uterus.”, Tuhain said crudely, as if her father’s scolding didn’t even scratch the surface of his soul. He carried on.

“I mean, after all, all men have the wildest dreams of bedding down with others of their sex and from what I’ve heard, the Vizier is a rather good-looking lad. Why would you pass that up? This one could even bear you a new child, maybe you could have a boy this time. Even though, considering his mother’s “handicap” as you called it, he might himself be incapacitated in that matter.”

“Tuhain…”, her father warned.

“I am joking, of course. My father was leprous and here I am, perfectly healthy. Now that I think about it, you should really take it into consideration. He has taken so much from you already with his surely sly seductive tactics, it’s time you put him up to his real use.”

“Enough, Tuhain!”

Tuhain raised his arms in the air in defeat, a look of bewilderment settling upon his eyes.

“Oh, how prudish you are, my dear Hamed! I am merely trying to give you the best advice as how to deal with him. I already told you, he will turn against you sooner or later.”

“I don’t need your advice. I perfectly know how to handle things myself and Jafar has not given me any trouble.”

“Alright, I am sooo sorry.” Tuhain said with a smug, feigning apprehension.

Jasmine couldn’t believe it. How was it possible that her opinion of him went downhill so quickly?

She only heard him speaking for a few moments and yet he had managed to sound like the worst of assholes: disrespectful, arrogant and lecherous.

He was just lucky that Jafar wasn’t here to rebuke him or he would have probably destroyed him.

Alas, kin souls attract one another.

Speaking of which, where the fuck was he?

A strange feeling crept upon her spine, as her intuition sensed a lingering danger in that abnormality.

In that moment, Dalia surprised her from behind, grabbing her arm and trying to hurriedly pull her away from the scene. You must see this, Amira, you must see this.

“What is it, Dalia?”, Jasmine said, keeping her position, refusing to move from her post, “I will come to bed soon, but I want to hear this first.”

“You don’t understand, my Princess. You have to come to your chambers now. The Vizier’s macaw has made a mess and I can’t calm him down. I’m afraid Rajah will eat it if it doesn’t stop soon.”

Iago? What was that wretched bird doing in her rooms? Did Jafar send him to spy on her? How crude.

Yet, the feeling of uneasiness from before only worsened after hearing about the bird.

What in the world was happening?

She followed Dalia and went back to her room, venturing inside after taking a look at the surroundings of her own doors. Servant girls were standing there very much like Jasmine had been standing in front of her father’s study, peeking at what was happening inside, moved by curiosity but unable to take action themselves.

She entered and the scene of her dishevelled room, which found similarities with what it would look like were it robbed – her expensive vases filled with flowers were broken, laying on the ground, her objects and accessories discarded and ruined – certainly didn’t please her.

The source of all that chaos was perched upon the tiles of her bed canopy, wings spread wide, in an effort to distance itself as much as it could from the tiger that was scratching one of carved columns of the bed down below, this one trying to reach the bird and drive it away once and for all.

Jasmine unwillingly came to its rescue, calming Rajah down.

“What is wrong with you, stupid parrot? Why have you made a mess of my chambers? Do you want me to make a stew out of you?”

The bird kept flapping its wings, unsure if Jasmine had been his savior or his future executioner, but found enough courage to finally reveal his worries.

“Master trapped!”, Iago squawked, “Master trapped in the desert with an alpha thief!!”

Jasmine saw red.

* * *

Immersed in his sleep, Aladdin had believed that the lips that he felt attaching to his were that of Dalia’s.

In his slumber, he could feel her entire body over his, atop of which she was delicately moving: her fingers, her hands, her legs and her hardening nipples were an exciting presence soliciting him to wakefulness.

He could feel her rub off on him and in that moment, Aladdin came to realization that not even in his wildest dreams he would have imagined something similar to this.

The miserable thied had never had sex in his life;

He could remember once, a woman with the sharp eyes of a fox who had aproached him in that way after he had ended up in her room as he was trying to leave the guards behind him. She had grabbed his hand and raised her gown to reveal her nude lower body, where she smoothly guided Aladdin’s hand towards the parted folds of her vagina. It had been awkard, but arousing. Aside from that brief, strange encounter – however- his experience in the matters of the bed could almost be considered null.

So this…This seemed and felt amazing.

Even in the deepest recesses of his sleep, he could feel himself responding. His phallus was quickly hardening under the effect of Dalia’s wise ministrations. Yet, he somehow felt that her hands were not upon his frame. Was she touching herself on his sleeping figure? Would she do that?

Aladdin didn’t care. It felt surreal, yet it aroused him to no end. Her alacrity was one of the most exciting things he had ever experienced, he had ever thought of. Her omega scent a coronation to their lustful mutual understanding.

She smelled sweet, with a pungent touch, an odour he was already familiar with. Burnt cedar wood mixed with a tinge of wild honey.

That had been the smell of…

The truth of things dawned upon him in a matter of seconds. Memories of the previous day coming back to him in the form of a sea of lava, gold and an oath made in the desert.

Dalia wasn’t Dalia.

And she was an alpha, not an omega.

His blissful dream turned into a nightmare and as distress and panic made him open his eyes, he found himself confronted with the sight of the treacherous Grand Vizier in full heat, needy, clinging to him as he tried to find completion over Aladdin’s body, taking in his scent and his mouth, a stripe of saliva hanging out of his parted, plump pink lips.

Shock was a mild word to describe his feelings and as the Vizier looked at him through half-lidded eyes, becoming aware of the fact that Aladdin was awake, the street thief used all of his brute strength to throw the man claded in black off of him.

A cry of pain erupted from the other as he was forced off of Aladdin’s frame, a whine similar to a frustrated complaint following soon after.

Aladdin nervously looked around himself, trying to catch a glimpse of Abu.

When he found him, relief flooded his spirit and the little monkey was laying on a boulder near them, slowly reprising consciousness like his human friend, aided by the careful and soft caresses of the flying carpet that was hovering upon him.

It was then that Aladdin figured that something was towering upon him as well: a blue, ephemeral giant was looking down on him from above, confusion etched in its celestial features.

He almost screamed.

What kind of crazy situation did he get himself into?

From behind, the Vizier seemed to not have the slightest intention to let Aladdin’s unwillingness interrupt what he had been doing. He hugged him, squeezed his arms under his neck and the hotness of his body was something easily perceptible, his omega scent continuing its assault on Aladdin’s senses and already hardening genitalia.

He thought that fear had abated his desire but that wasn’t apparently the case.

As the Vizier tried to pull him down on the ground with him, leaving a trail of lustful, passionate kisses on the skin of his neck, Aladdin found himself considering giving in to temptation.

After all, what kind of mindless alpha would ever turn away such advances?

He turned around.

The Prime Minister’s face was the perfect icon to reflect the dizziness that always came alongside heat: his eyes were half-lidded, clouded by lust and filled with frustrated tears of still yet-to-come release; his mouth was left hanging as words tried to come out but failed to manifest themselves.

He briefly wondered, savouring the effect that his hold had upon the man – who became yielding and pliant – if he really should follow his alpha instinct, not sure of how much longer he could refrain himself from doing anything as the smell of the uninterrupted flow of slick coming out of his vagina had already made a driven by desire animal out of Aladdin.

Nonetheless, he tried once again to shake the man off of him, jostling him violently in the process, something that made the man scream again.

“You shouldn’t do that boy”, the giant exclaimed, his deep commanding voice yet another thing to be frightened of, “First, I think he has a broken limb. Second, it’s not like that that you will get rid of an omega in heat.”

Still a little bit shaken and occupied with the task of restrain the Vizier, Aladdin decided that the juice was worth the squeeze and addressed the being.

“Wh-Who are you?”

“Are you serious?”, the Giant said while shrinking back to Aladdin’s stature, his ephemeral body becoming one made of blue flesh, “Don’t you know about Jinns?”

What a question.

Of course he knew about Jinns, but he had only heard about them in stories and fairy tales.

They, creatures that God fashioned out of smokeless fire, unworthy of trust and prone to play cruel games upon humans.

Even death-inducing pranks.

“Do not worry boy, I am not that kind of Jinn. You see that lamp that lies next to your feet?”

Aladdin lowered his gaze towards his lower limbs and noticed that the Vizier had dropped it in his attempt to near him as much as possible.

He took it back between his hands and scratched its dusty surface, noticing a prickling shiver going through the Jinn’s body, who started to scratch himself all over.

“Don’t do that please, I am tied to the Lamp. Everything she goes through, I go through”, the blue being said.

“You see, I was once trapped inside it by none other than King Sulayman, after I refused to serve in his army, and from that moment on I am ensalved to do the bidding of the one who possesses the lamp, whom I guess is now you, considering that you’re holding it in your hands.”

He? Someone’s Master? More over, Master of an immortal, all-powerful Jinn?

Myriads of fantasies and possibilities invaded the corners of his mind.

The Jinn sighed, obviously guessing what thrill Aladdin’s spirit was experiencing, and spoke again:

“I probably should have told you already that you only have three wishes. So think about them properly, and be specific.”

At that, the Vizier whined again, trying to regain attention upon himself.

Honestly, it was starting to become annoying to say the least, to have an omega – a hermaphrodite at that– costantly prying at you.

Yet, Aladdin’s alpha had somehow awoken in the midst of this cosmical chaos, and was ready to take action. He grabbed the Vizier’s hand and brought it near hi nose, so that he could better scent it, something that made the omega whine in anticipation of pleasure, his pupils raised to the top of his eyes, his mouth agape.

Aladdin could swear he could see the man’s erection through the infinite layers of his garments.

He also could smell the odour of his mucus.

And that was it: Aladdin’s own pupils widened, his gaze trespassed innocence to become sharp and fierce, as he opened his mouth to form a sound akin to a roar, showing his teeth.

He had told the Grand Vizier that no respectable alpha wouldn’t be able to take on any omega’s heat.

And even though the thief had never bedded anyone before in his life, the moment to prove himself a true man had come.

“Genie.”, Aladdin said as he started to hurriedly strip the Vizier of all of his robes, meeting a feeble resistance in the process (almost as if the man didn’t know wheter to struggle or give in). “How long has he been like this?”, he exclaimed again before taking one of the Vizier’s nipples in his mouth, the sight of his nude chest a temptation too great in beauty to be ignored.

He started to gently suckle on it, as if he were a child, encouraged by the moan of the man whose heat he was taking care of.

He was pretty sure that old trick to please omegas had made the hermaphrodite reach his first orgasm that night, something he was about to discover by uncovering as fast as possible his lower half.

The Genie kept a sceptical attitude towards the scene in itself, but nonetheless replied to Aladdin’s question, as the latter gleefully ascertained the accuracy of his previous assumption after disrobing the Vizier’s lower half, where the release of his still hard dick had painted his black robes and his belly white and his vulva was in the midst of releasing a never-ending torrent of fluent, thick and trasparent arousing mucus.

“When he summoned me from the dark clutches of the lamp he was entering in the first stages of heat. I am not an expert over human’s anatomy but my servitude for your species has taught me quite a few things, or at least provided me with some experience. What I can tell you is that he looks like he has been holding back. I don’t think his heat is going to be easy, nor short at that.”

Even though he had been waiting for an answer, Aladdin had to be sincere and admit at least to himself that he wasn’t paying that much of attention as the only informations that registered in his mind were that it was going to be a very long heat.

But, how could anyone expect him to concentrate, considering the sight he had been presented with?

The arrogant Vizier, the man who had kidnapped him, lied to him and tried to kill him, was now laying on the ground, completely naked, frail and vulnerable as his marred skin and the countless scars that found place upon its epidermis were now in full display for an alpha to see, awaiting for Aladdin’s judgement: would he be a worth fuck? Or would he be abandoned here as a discarded omegan whore?

Maybe both of these two scenarios excited him as Aladdin saw the man placing his hand upon his scarred belly (made out of a constellation of marred dots leaving Aladdin to wonder what had happened to him) just to let it travel slowly and gently downwards, first over his phallus – to which he gave a quick yank – and then to his cunt, where his cunning fingers marvelously played with the sweeetest visible spot of an omega, the clitoris.

The image aroused Aladdin to no end and yet the thought of controlling the other man’s orgasm, to make him pay through this very specific, oh-so-sweet and pleasurable form of torture, was an even more appealing option.

Because of that, he took both of the Vizier’s hands - batting the one that was on his clit away from the place - and held them over his head where he strictly tied them with a lace found between the robes of the man so that he could no longer participate in his own pleasure, gaining a whine from the man.

This was now a game that only Aladdin was allowed to play.

The Vizier would come when he decided was time for him to do so, when Aladdin thought it was appropriate. Or better yet, if he ever deserved to cum.

The thief realized that he had let his own question and answer hanging in the air and reluctantly rose his gaze from the sight of the Grand Vizier’s plump and full red nipples, ready to be devoured by an alpha’s hungry tongue, to address once again the Jinn:

“Could you please take care of my hurt friends over there, right behind you? And take them somewhere they can’t see us? I’ll be with you as soon as possible, when I have finished dealing with this.” And by this, Aladdin meant the man he was in some way helding captive under him that he indicated to the Jinn with a quick movement of the hand.

The Genie looked at him for a short while before responding, “As you wish, Master.”

There was something even more skeptical in this reply, as if he was sure that the matter at hand would not be over quickly.

Aladdin waited to see the blue being approach the Carpet and Abu, taking the latter into his hands, and sprint away somewhere else in the cave, where his friends could neither hear or see him doing anything indecent.

It was only then that he allowed himself to let loose.

“So”, he said triumphantly, readdressing his attentions to the still struggling Vizier, who was now trying to loosen the knots over his tied hands, “we are finally alone.”

The man sighed. He was so entranced with his own arousal that he didn’t even find any words to rebuke Aladdin or at least reply to him.

As a matter of fact, Aladdin didn’t think the Vizier would be able to formulate a coherent sentence soon enough. The Jinn was right, the man had probably found a way to avoid heat for years – that much Aladdin could tell by the scars on his womb, the piercing of which was a typical method used by omegas who wanted to have an abortion but didn’t have the means to achieve it through medical help that, Aladdin assumed, also helped to deter heat in a similar way - and now it was coming to bite him back in the ass ten times stronger, recuperating all that wasted time; it was no wonder then that the hermaphrodite had almost fallen in a sort of trance-like state where his bodily needs were the only thing that mattered, the hotness of his limbs his only preoccupation.

To be honest, though, Aladdin thought it was adorable to hear his incoherent gasps, his pained cries, his needy whines and his frustrated moans.

It all added more and more euphoria to that stereotypical feeling of power an alpha was supposed to feel by dominating his “omega”, an animal need that would only be satisfied by taking care of said creature during a heat, knotting them and crowning the experience through a proof of ownership: the bite on the joint of the neck.

The only thought made him want to cum right then and there, all over the Vizier’s face, the man responsible for of his labours.

“You know,”, Aladdin carried on with his speech, as he licked a long stripe near the man’s right nipple, happy to watch him shiver “I am really thinking about what I should do with you: part of me wants to fuck you until you loose all of your senses, but that would be too easy.”

Aladdin started to trail kisses upon the Vizier’s chest and in between one another, he took the time to tease the man with his speech.

“On the other side, even though you have proved to be a gigantic asshole, you do look adorable like this and I find myself incapacitated of not giving you what you need, what you want. Because you want this. Right?”

Aladdin said while freeing his own hardening shaft to the air and displaying it in front of the omega, whose eyes widened, whose hole began yet again to convulsively twitch, readying itself to be penetrated.

The man under him slowly nodded, as his eyes filled with tears of desperation and need, something that the good heart of Aladdin couldn’t ignore, not even in the midst of his alpha rutting. He hugged the man and licked the tears way from his face.

“Do not worry, for all you did so far, I have no intention to harm you or humiliate you.”, he said while slowly directing his hand to the man’s penis, resting his fingers upon it.

And he meaned that.

He really, truly thought that whatever had transpired between him didn’t excuse him from torturing him excessively.

Excessively, though, was a key word to be considered.

“However”, he continued after firmly gripping the shaft - something that made the Vizier scream in frustration - and after starting to search for any kind of thin fabric he could find in the man’s discarded robes, “I do think that you need to be punished. After all, we wouldn’t be here were it not for you and your arrogance and cruelty need to be tamed down.”

He finally found what he needed, a small stripe of cloth – a belt that used to hold his breastplates together - thin yet strong enough in thickness that he easily tied the Vizier’s hard penis with it, blocking it in a perpetual state of desire, unable to cool down and unable to cum, truly the perfect torment for this situation.

The man started to struggle convulsively, probably in hope that his ministrations would somehow loosen the ropes that bound his hands together and or the ones trapping his hardening penis.

He moaned, whined and occasional screams of complaint began coming out of his mouth.

It was primal and yet the best thing an alpha could ask for.

Aladdin licked his lips.

“Good boy.”, he said and as the man under him continued to struggle, the thief finally found himself able to unleash the erotic fantasies that these particular heat had induced in him.

He started by exploring the body underneath his with the gentlest of touches, as to caress him all over.

Were it not for the spots where countless scars dotted his entire body, the Vizier’s skin would be uniformly soft and smooth to the touch, very much unlikely for a man.

Yet, Aladdin reminded himself that in front of him there was no man: he was dealing with a hermaphrodite. He had already stated the presence of a vagina so who knew what other peculiarities he would vecome familiar with through his path of pleasure?

However, to be frank, Aladdin didn’t really know what to do and that would have been the same case if he had been with a woman.

After all, that was his first time with anybody and he found himself thinking that he would have preferred to be with Da- the Princess than with this man. A bitter sentiment took over his soul then. Was he really sure he wanted to do this? Would he even do this right?

He looked at the Vizier and slowly felt his desire surging up once again.

In the end, wasn’t there something almost archetypical in sex? A sort of spiritual or sensual inner guide that leady any human’s way through desire?

His slow caresses alongside the Prime Minister’s sides were already a demonstration of it: he was trying to better assest what were the critical points that made the Vizier shiver, see stars, and Aladdin realized that sexual gratification could be found even in this process of teasing and exploring. He moved his hands up and down; first on the vizier’s chest where he had already worked the ministrations of his tongue - noticing the preferrance of the man for his own chest area - and started to lick his right nipple.

First, he had circled the areola with his tongue, making sure of taking in every single reaction that produced in the Vizier’s body, who had become a shivering, moaning mess.

Then, when he was sure that he had the man completely at his feet, Aladdin engulfed the tip of the nipple with his own mouth and started yet again to suckle on it as if he were a child trying to extract milk from his mother’s tit, while he used his other hand to tease the left nipple, scratching its tip sligthly as it hardened more and more with any passing moment, an excitement that was mirrored in the Vizier’s strainingly erect penis.

Even though Aladdin had no intenction to strip, he realized that maybe his own shaft needed release and, after switching the attentions of his tongue to the left nipple and reprising the same teasing and pinching attitude with his fingers on the right one, Aladdin took his dick in hand and started to rut against that of the Vizier, who was still unable to cum due to the belt around it.

There was something extremely pleasurable in controlling somebody else’s body; that’s what Aladdin realized as the Vizier struggled under him, his eyes squinting in an expression of misery – almost as if he was trying to ask for mercy with his look as the words fatigued to come out of his mouth – yet at the same time pushing forward to meet Aladdin’s touch, looking for more.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, his rutting suddenly became brutal, unrelenting and while he kept his tongue-like assault over the Vizier’s left nipple (which Aladdin had no intention to ever let go of, now that he learned just how much it made the hermaphrodite loose his mind) he used his other hand to skim over the Vizier’s thick thigh and grip it. That’s when the man screamed in pain and Aladdin noticed that there was something wrong.

He looked down so that he could better see his prey’s lower half and the thigh appeared to be the sensible yet less twisted part of his leg, which was severely injured, an almost impossible angle possessing its core.

In the end, maybe Aladdin wasn’t a real alpha; because, after assesting the state the omega in heat was in, he could no longer ignore his cries and whines, much less derive pleasure from them.

He carefully pulled the Vizier upright and made him sit down over his lap, trying to distend his leg in the less painful manner possible. He was encouraged by the almost moanless compliance of the Vizier, who in return buried his face into Aladdin’s shoulderblades and there inhaled deeply.

Ignoring his own straining erection, still impossibly close to that of the man – still restrained, still impossibly hard as well – Aladdin offered a quick consolation to the Vizier by wrapping his arms around his marred skin, caressing his back and whispering sweet nothings into his ears.

That seemed to calm him down.

“Do you feel a little bit better now?”

The man nodded into his shoulder, trying to get as close as possible to Aladdin’s chest who, looking at both their excited penises, asked him another question.

“Do you want to continue?”

The man nodded again after a moment of indecision, but did nothing more than that.

Aladdin sighed.

Maybe omegas really liked to be cuddled. It looked like Aladdin was supposed to do everything in the end.

He freed the Vizier’s hands and penis from their bindings as he slowly ripositioned his hand over the man’s (yes that was quite surreal) filled with slick vagina and started to gently stroke his clitoris, an operation that won him a moan of pleasure.

“How do you want to do this? I mean, do you like this position?”

At that, the Vizier seemed to break from whichever trance he might have been in and weakly pushed Aladdin to the ground, his hands furnaces ready to burst fire.

He skimmed his hands over the boy’s chest - much like the latter had done previously to him - and with the swiftest movements that his jostled leg could allow him he lowered himself over Aladdin’s navel, where he started to trace mappings with his tongue and saliva until he got to the thief’s pelvis, smelling its hair before engulfing with his lips Aladdin’s shaft in a quick, elegant stroke.

Aladdin rolled his eyes and his pupils disappeared into his eyelids as bliss conquered him.

He hardly doubted that the Vizier never experienced intercourse with alphas before in that moment and he remembered that the man had never said anything of the sorts, so why was he even thinking it.

Alpha jealousy, maybe? A man’s possessive desire?

Oh, well, Aladdin thought better of it. He wasn’t that kind of man and certainly didn’t plan to change because of his first encounter.

Yet, he still thought that the Vizier knew too well what he was doing: he had aimed at specific target and quickly conquered it, his tongue an instrument of subjugation as it licked the veins of Aladdin’s penis before turning to focus its attention over the phallus’head, circling its slit and digging its wet surface in.

Then, as the Vizier bobbed his head in delicate, swift up and down motions over his penis, he once again took it into his mouth to the brim – his cheecks reddening and dilatating under the pressure of the invading presence – and started sucking.

And that was it for Aladdin.

He could enjoy the Vizier’s talented mouth and tongue just for a little bit longer, moments that he would savour before finally ejaculating in the man’s mouth; real istances of ecstasy after all that teasing that Aladdin realized he had not only aimed at the Vizier but also to himself as well.

The Vizier’s head stayed in place, even though Aladdin hadn’t felt the need to keep it between his legs but apparently the man was set on swallowing all of his cum.

Was the consumption of semen something that helped to cool omegas’ heats down?

He didn’t remember nor know. There were so many things that popular wisdom affirmed over that particular subject; who knew which one of those affirmations were true, which ones were meant to justify unsensitive behaviour on the alpha’s part.

The only thing he understood to be true was the prickly sensation that a forming knot - appearing after ejaculation to tie the omega’s intrauterine walls to the penis so that it could better disperd the last drops of its semen - was something almost unbearable and, for fear of knotting the Vizier’s mouth and causing his asphixyation, he violently pulled the man’s head off.

At least he could see, renouncing to pleasure, that the man’s eyes had become more lucid, the presence of spirit finally coming back to them.

Apparently, the heat was against any prediction somehow abating. Could it be because he was a fair advanced in years omega?

Yet something of the previous dizziness remained in his gaze, as he turned to look up to Aladdin, his mouth still dealing with the rest of the sperm that he couldn’t completely swallow, painting his lips white and gathering at the corner of them.

“Can I…”, the Vizier spoke, surprising Aladdin’s yet again with his resilience, “Can I do one last thing?”, he said.

“What is it?”, Aladdin calmly replied, even if he didn’t feel like trusting this man too much once he had regained his senses.

“Just…,” he began, stuttering, “Just let me…”

The man took his injured leg in his hands so he could move it with the rest of his and be careful as not to put too much pressure on it, repressing a hiss of pain, and settled once again upon Aladdin’s shaft’s frame, this time directing it towards his still releasing entrance.

He did it slowly, carefully, helping himself through the use of his fingers, scissoring them throughout the opening of his vagina to better accomodate Aladdin’s cock and, after a few attempts, he completely engulfed it with his vagina.

It was then that the knot finally took his hold on the man’s uterus, who finally came on his own, withouth the need of any touch on the part of Aladdin.

“I knotted you.”, Aladdin stated, as if it wasn’t already obvious.

“Yes,” the Vizier said, an expression of relief spreading upon his features, “I know.”

“Do you realize we’re stuck, now that I’ve penetrated you?” Aladdin asked him as he slowly rose from the ground, careful as not to jostle the Vizier’s leg.

“Yes, I know.”, the man replied, placing his head once again over Aladdin’s shoulder, looking for snuggling.

The boy could finally feel the sweat of their bodies cooling down and he took once again the man into his arms, moving his hands up and down his spine in an almost intimate manner. He could feel the man’s eyelids struggling to remain open over the skin of his chest and realized that the Vizier was about to doze off, tiredness taking over him after this particularly stressful heat.

“Do you want to sleep for a while? I heard it’s supposed to make you regain your energies.”

The man nodded and fell silent, clearly ready to take up Aladdin’s offer as soon as possible and the thief himself couldn’t deny that sleep was about to threaten him withh his sweet dreams too.

Yet, he knew he had to stay awake. Await for the Vizier to fall asleep as he could not be trusted.

He kept caressing him until he dozed off and when the deal was done he remembered about Abu, the Carpet, the Cave and the Jinn, whose lamp still layed just a couple of inches away from the scene of his embarassing mating.

He extended his arm and reached out to the lantern, taking it into his hands and marveling over its designs as the thought of an immortal Jinn expressing three wishes of his delighted his soul.

A smile spread on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bulus – Saint Paul  
Dhul-Qarnayn – literally meaning “He of the two horns”, a name that in arabic is used to refer to Alexander the Great, who is abudantly presen in Muslim Imagery.  
Jawjamila – arabic translation of Gaugamela, a plain where the final battle between Alexander the Great and Darius III of Persia took place, making Alexander the leader of the vastest empire that time had ever seen.  
Iskandar – Persian name of Alexander the Great  
Al-Aghribah-al-‘Arab – literally meaning ‘Arab crow’, it was the alias with which the half arab, half ethiopian warrior and poet Antarah ibn Shaddad (AD 525- 608) was known due to his darker skin. Antarah was born a slave, son of a respected warrior of the Banu Abs and of an ethiopian princess held captive named Zabeebah. I have had him compared to Jafar because, just like him, he too came from a servile, humble background but his intelligence and his military prowess helped him to rise his social status.  
Fatimah – Daughter of the Prophet Muhammad, known and praised for her endurance and strong will.  
Taqiyah – a cap of the muslim tradition, usually worn for prayer.  
King Sulayman – King Solomon, a magician in the Kabbalah tradition and Muslim culture of the middle ages.


	6. Stalemate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here I am again! Sorry to everybody who was waiting for this, I had the craziest school year and a lot of things happened XD! Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoy, getting my english back together is not easy at all :3!

She should have known that Jafar would eventually succeed in his efforts to destroy her, body and soul.

She should have realized before that that had been his goal all along, since the day she first met him, when she saw his eyes full of contempt for the very first time as her Baba introduced them - back when he was still a young man, a simple soldier who saved her father's life, devoid of any trace of a beard and still lacking the vulva that would later sentence his fate as that of the Royal Omega of the Agrabean court.

She should have known right there, taking in those steely black eyes - mask of a far deeper, desperate hunger - that he would have tried to seduce away what she writhed for like the tantalizing snake that he was... and leave her to deal with the consequences of Divine Wrath.

Oh, Aladdin.

How could you let yourself be fooled by that serpent?

How could Jasmine? How did she even consider the possibility of one single joy.

To think that someone might actually desire her. Not her title, not her fortune, not her beauty, no. Her.

What a preposterous dream.

She should have known that Jafar would have found out and would have played once again his depraved little game: tormenting her, humiliating her.

If Aladdin had been seduced to follow him, she didn’t know.

If it was Jafar who realized that he could still exact vengeance for the words she had whispered to him previously that same evening Aladdin had snuck into the Palace and kidnapped him, she couldn't fathom.

All she knew were the half-revelations she could deduce from the words of the squeaking, agitated parrot flying over their heads in the Sultan’s study.

_Master trapped. Desert. Alpha thief. _

And at that, all the possible scenarios had played in her head like a performance by a circus company.

Her chambers disappeared as the scattered objects and furniture vanquished from her view and her rage took the best of her. She yelled and threw a lamp in the bird's direction before Dalia intervened to stop her from hurting herself with the shards of glass on the floor - before she was heard by all the Court and the guards, as well as her ever preoccupied father, swiftly approached her room, only to hear the words of the red-feathered creature by theirselves.

Questions were asked, truths surfaced.

Jasmine tried to defend herself and Hakim struggled to justify his complicity with the disappeared Vizier.

She later found herself here, in her Baba's study, amidst a murmuring crowd, whose eyes were fixated upon her frame; she could feel Dalia’s trembling aura behind her, intimidated as she was, as her Father (no, the Sultan again) -concerned over one of his hermaphrodite’s whereabouts/Allah forbid he might loose control of the sentient beings around him - became cold and distant, his words full of disappointment.

The only piercing presence she could still muster to be wary of was that of Tuhain’s, her cousin, who still stared at her with a curious look from the vimini armchair he had settled himself upon when he was welcomed by the sleepy people of Agrabah a couple of hours ago. Where he had uttered the most foul words Jasmine had ever heard anyone dare to enunciate in the presence of a Sultan as if he was talking about candies. The boldest claim about hermaphrodites anyone ever dared to express between the halls and corridors of this palace.

\- _exceptional freaks of nature_ -

She briefly remembered the day before, when she actually met the boy she so quickly fell for and wondered… Was that what Aladdin would think of her too?

Then - maybe, just maybe - It was a blessing her little escapades were discovered oh-so-quickly.

Like this, she wouldn't be able to grow too fond with the idea of love.

And yet- Her father's reprimandings about etiquette, about safety, honor, or the looks of an ever critizing royal entourage - they still meant nothing in front of her heartbreak.

How long did it take for Aladdin to fall into the Vizier’s trap? Had he even really cared about her to begin with?

No, how long had Jafar known about the boy in the Palace?

How could he always, possibly, be one step in front of her?

It was moments like this- when she felt betrayed, humiliated, heavy with angry, unshed tears - that her mind filled to the brim with sensations and memories much similar to these, of the aftermath of one warm summer afternoon, when she lost her innocence for the very first time under a scorching midday sun, hidden by the discrete shadow of the plants of the Rose Garden in the palace... and by the hands of none other than her scourge.

One single tear fell from her left eye as many more were yet to come... and everyone in the room must have assumed that her weeping was due to the Sultan’s scolding voice – usually so serene and now packed with unrest and rage – when instead she was burning with shame and unspoken secrets, that brought her frustration beyond any limit.

She thought about how he had felt hot under the ministrations of her tongue; hotter than that same summer morning they had bumped into one another, both brooding over the pettiest of the things - which to the both of them had always felt like the greatest of the insults - that fueled into pure rage their infamous, usual foul mood.

She wasn't able to recall who had started it, but if the memory of her towering clothed self straddling his naked body to the ground, divested of all clothing in the blink of an eye, behind the tallest bushes of the Rose Garden was any indicator, Jasmine would have to guess that it had been her.

The only clear memory that came to mind now that she was seated – or better yet sprawled – over the vimine recliner in the Sultan’s study, listening to her father’s loud, unhinged row about Jafar’s disapperance (and about how it was her and/or Hakim’s fault), hands and feet hanging lazily out of the chair like a petulant child, tears filling her crimson eyes, was the sweet smell that had come from Jafar’s then exposed neck, more toxic than wine.

She remembered the thin lips of his mouth, hanging open and seductive for all the duration of their close encounter – tainted, secretive and because of that far more arousing than it had any right to be – as she explored his body, mad with heat, with a newly found talented tongue of her own.

He had been hot and salty.

Or, at least, that had been the memory of Jafar that Jasmine had had to push away almost immediately after their passion, as she had to put up with his stern and authoritarian behavior right after they both reached their climaxes -

_oh, the tender moans that distorted his otherwise deep voice, the foul words she had whispered into his ears as their arousal spurred on, the sticky sensation of the weird secretion her entrance adorned its folds with, the one that allowed both of their vulvas to attach to one another as if they were one in a perfect, costant, blissful beat of orgasm _

\- as their lives went back to their monotone, miserable routine.

She often wondered why she kept reminiscing about that in the darkest moments of her life (even right now, in front of her father, her court, triggered just by the thought of a lost potential romance), in the darkest pit of the night, when arousal came back to haunt her and her fingers skimmed down her pelvis.

That encounter had been nothing. Just an impulse - a savage impulse driven by nature.

And Jafar must have surely thought the same, judging by his delusional behavior after their quick ‘confrontation’: he had become so much pettier than he had already been with her, more infantile than she had ever experienced as he bullied her into her ‘so called’ place as the Vizier liked to remind her.

It was quite ironic - she pondered everytime with a smirk on her lips -then, that she had been the one holding him down while their encounter lasted, the one dominating him.

Something he probably - no - he definitely couldn’t stand.

Jasmine didn’t know if their arousal had been sparked by one of his first heats (she remembered noticing his newly born vulva looking rougher then hers, like it was brutally molded out of clay) but she sure as hell could see that he had been enraptured by her.

And, much to her dismay, she often found herself wondering many much more times than she would have liked to admit if Jafar ever harbored for her any semblance of a feeling similar to the one they had shared in the Rose Garden that day. If the glances he cast her at the dining table while her Baba wasn’t looking, if the dirty looks he shot at every foreign prince championing for her hand in marriage meant something more than a simple immovable, stern, facial expression.

Did he want her? She asked herself even now as she thought about what he had taken away from her, in front of the angry rant from her father his little tricks prepared for her. Was he jealous of her?

If he was - If he ever even ruminated upon her - he clearly wasn’t willing to undertake the role of the subservient partner. As he should.

After all, Jasmine demonstrated pretty well that she was the alpha during their effusions, didn’t she?

Why should she be the one submitting to him?

Why would she have to stay here in front of all of her judging court, being scolded like a little girl because of the actions of a childish, handsome – omega – Grand Vizier?

So many questions, so much longing.

How chaotic was the heart of a hermaphrodite.

“---Hakim, once again, what in the world were you thinking?!”, Jasmine heard her father rebuff, finally coming out of her stupor thanks to one particular hard pinch on her shoulders by Dalia's fingers.

“My apologies, My Sultan.”, was the reply that came from Hakim, who appeared extremely apologetic, disappointed, more with himself than with anyone else.

“I did not believe that the boy could present a threat to the Vizier’s well being. His Excellency appeared confident of being able to dispose of him by himself. He told me he wanted to make sure none other would take advantage of the princess ever again in the future, that he would make an example out of the thief.”

Really, an example?

What was he going to do, murder him? Cut his genitals? Strung his corpse up on the city walls for everybody to see?

“Still, that is no excuse.”, the Sultan firmly replied, his face livid blue, his nostrils fuming. “You shouldn’t have allowed him to leave the Palace, better yet Agrabah, without an escort. For Heaven’s sake, you know he’s an omega, you could very well smell the scent of his upcoming heat! Without mentioning the fact that I do not approve being left in the dark over matters concerning my own daughter!”

And all eyes turned once again upon Jasmine as she used her sleeves to dismiss the last track of tears coming out of her eyes, getting a hold of herself and resuming a straight posture.

Her fingers trailed the path towards Dalia’s reassuring hand on her shoulder and she took up the strength to speak once again her mind- as princess-like as she could.

“Father,”, she began, addressing him formally as she was used to do in front of their retinue, “For all that’s been said about me and my wanderings throughout the streets of Agrabah - may it be safe or not - I truly do not believe it is my fault Jafar got himself stuck into whatever situation he is in now; be it the desert or the mountains. My only concern today has been learning more about the subjects of our kingdom and that boy had appeared to be not only a wonderful guide and company – polite and respectful - but also a correct sample of the daily life of our subjects. It is true I have engaged in colloquial discourse with him but it has been purely out of friendship, as he also does not know I am the princess. So, I wouldn’t even know how Jafar could assert he was of any threat to our well-being.”

“How he could be a thre- Jasmine do not use such a condescending tone with me. He is a thief - both Hakim and Jafar have seen him stealing right after he managed to sneak into the Palace. How could you ever say he is not a danger?”, her father replied.

“Father, what he has stolen, he has given back. He just dressed himself up to go unnoticed so he could speak with me. Nothing more and nothing less. Jafar is always exaggerating things. How can you not see he is simply justifying his aggressive demeanor through his so called ‘order’? Am I not allowed to make friends?”

“Enough, Jasmine!", her father commanded from the top of his lungs.

"I will not stand for your nonsensical harangue anymore. Jafar has gone missing, my Vizier has left my court without my approval and now he is trapped Allah knows where with an alpha that could attack him! And yet here we are discussing over the obvious amorality of a criminal you brought in our midst as if it was a matter of forming friendships or personal liberties. None of which require, I'd like to remind you, leaving the palace, breaking the law and going against my express orders!”

Really, what law. What kind of just rule segregates one person into their home?

Apparently, she was a full woman only when needed to be kept under control.

Besides, Jasmine didn’t bring absolutely anyone into their home- Aladdin came by himself.

But she started to ask herself if the real reason her father looked so upset really lay in her disrespect for rules, to which she really was no newcomer. After all, it had been just a couple of months since she got a scolding for introducing herself into the study of their Palace Physician at night to observe from up close the weird old-as-time creature encased in amber that the man kept as a prop.

Maybe her Baba needed Jafar more than he would have liked to admit, Jasmine pondered. After all, the Vizier had taken upon himself almost every real chore of the kingly recipient - directing the military, guiding the palace life and controlling the economics of their kingdom - and Jasmine had never thought before today that her father may have been consensual to it. Perhaps even asked for it.

It was in that moment that Jasmine truly saw for the first time the intensity of the deep wrinkles under her Baba's now angry eyes; how much age weighed on him.

And yet, were those craters a result of aging or the heavy burden of the responsibilities that came as a monarch?

Right there - for a glimpse of a moment - regret showed upon Jasmine's features.

As her father collected himself and appeared ready to resume a kingly speech, a new, soft voice made itself be heard: her cousin Tuhain, Sultan of Sherabad, spoke at last.

“Alas, Dear Uncle, let’s cease our atrocious bickering. It is quite late and I believe we are all tired of accusing one another of a crime neither has committed. Shall we send a party in the desert, let’s say, tomorrow morning? After we have all rested?”

All the eyes directed to Jasmine's chair swiftly changed subject of observation then, as Tuhain's straightforward proposition clearly affected the Sultan, more in a negative then a positive way. As a matter of fact, her poor Baba looked even more upset then before, ashamed of being reprimanded by a fellow ruler about his litigious behaviour. Almost as if the Sultan of Agrabah was afraid of being judged unworthy by this newly appointed monarch. What did Tuhain have over her father?

“Tomorrow?", came her father's stuttered reply at last, "Tuhain, right now could already be too late. He could be lost in the desert, he could—”

“He could be a lot of things, my beloved Uncle.”, Tuhain chuckled, still playing with the now cold drink in his hand. “As things are now, we don’t have a lot of information. We only know what that- " and the Sherabadian Sultan pointed towards the agitated parrot pacing through the room’s trusses- “has told us. He’s in the Desert, with a thief. In a cave or whatever. If it provides you with any sort of consolation, my entourage and I have seen nothing on our way here, nor this morning nor tonight; so it is very likely that he followed another route and there are just so many places which could host caves. All we have to do is head towards the mountains that separate the Agrabah Desert from the Republic of Zaytun. They can only be that far, they wouldn’t have been able to go somewhere more distant in the span of a day. So rest assured, dear Uncle, there is no need to fret and dramatize over such a small problem.”

“Tuhain…”, he replied, his voice chocking and his cheeks reddened.

“Yes, yes, that hermaphrodite of yours is with a criminal, got it. He is also an alpha, checked that box too. Didn’t you say that he was your best commander up until some time ago? Wasn’t he the one who defeated that Nahrian pig? I think he can take care of himself. I mean, the worst we will probably be faced with is the rotting corpse of a pauper and an omega in heat next to it.” He then grimaced, obviously disgusted by the next thought he was about to express.

“Let’s also pray that that hermaphrodite of yours is not so desperate with heat to start humping a dead body.”

Bemused. There was no other way to describe it. Everyone in the room was simply death-stricken with Tuhain’s straightforwardness.

To think that her Baba complained about her when a man he rarely met before was this condescending with him.

“I would be honoured to help you.”, Prince Anders said, awakening everybody from their petrified state. “My men would be happy to help you search for the Vizier. After all, you have all been so kind to us. Please, let us show you how resourceful the people of Skanland are.”

“Then maybe you should go with your people, Prince Anders. You are a skanlandian yourself, I’m sure you would be plagued by missing a chance to show us your country’s worth.”, Jasmine replied rather smugly before her father or Dalia – or at that anyone else – could interrupt her.

“Jasmine…”, her father whispered in admonishment, still embarassed, still for some reason looking at Tuhain for approval, as the latter got up in the most theatrical way possible and clasped his hands together in sign of enthusiasm.

"Perfect, then.”, the Sultan of Sherabad claimed. “We shall assemble a party tomorrow morning as first thing to deal with; and send it out in the Desert as soon as possible. I will gladly lend you my men but as I am a guest in your home, I hope you shan't mind If I stay here and enjoy the company of my cousin, al-Amira. I’d rather fancy a tour around the palace."

Jasmine made a face and looked pleadingly in her father's directions. Was she now supposed to babysit him instead of Prince Anders?

"The only question that remains here is..", the man spoke again, "...do you really desire to retrieve him, Uncle? This could be a wonderful occasion to look out for better aids.”

Jasmine’s father, who now somehow came back in his right mind - as if the sole idea of abandoning Jafar was too much for him to even consider it as more than a mere joke - simply rolled his eyes and directed his severe voice to Hakim.

“Hakim, you have failed me once. Please, do not make me change my opinion of you. You are to assemble this party of men first thing in the morning and lead them into the desert. Hopefully, Sherabad’s Sultan’s advice will prove useful to you. Bring back the Vizier.”

“Yes, My Sultan.”, Hakim whispered apologetically. “I can never fully express the extent of my sorrow . I will bring back the Vizier in one piece.”

And that seemed to settle everything up: everybody started to disperse while Jasmine awaited in the rooms to speak with her father in private as a sleepy Dalia left before her to prepare her bed. But his gaze never fell on her once.

She gave a last look in the direction of her newly found cousin, the last one to leave the chambers – even after her father – and had to put up with his amused smile and fake etiquette as he made a mockery of a bow before leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Great. Now she was stuck with him too.

She got up from her seat and stretched. Once she had exited the room and started to push the doors back together, Iago came flying from the trusses of the Sultan's study and perched himself over her shoulders, searching for a cuddle by caressing her face with his red feathers.

She indulged him and scratched its beak, wondering what was wrong with the creature’s almost angry gaze.

“Are you jealous?”, he squeaked at last.

And the last thing that was heard in the dark of the night was the cussing of a princess and the sound of a slipper thrown at an insolent bird. 

***

“I’m surely about to go mad, Dalia.”, Jasmine said, her voice barely audible under the thick layers of precious linens and silks she was dressed in, crouched in the small, heavily decked out space of the gurney she was sharing with her servant, while the latter tried her best to ventilate the claustrophobic environment using only Jasmine’s peacok-feathered fan and her own sleeves.

“Al-Amira, it is almost over. Bear with it a little longer.”, Dalia swiftly replied – her voice always gentle, always serene, as accustomed as she was to Jasmine’s constant lamenting – before peering out the tent and checking the landscape surrounding them.

“We are almost arrived to _Alrraye_, Princess. Most I can see from here is the translucent tiles of the Mosque. She looks as beautiful as always.”

Yes, Jasmine thought between herself - still lost deep in thoughts about Rajah (the poor tiger had been left alone once again) - _Alrraye_ was nothing if always beautiful.

Adorned with no less then sixteen translucent turquoise minarets, equipped with a vast garden and a _sahn_ with twenty ablution fountains, her walls were carved in mineral stone whereas her domes were made out of solidified pearls of sea salt; blessed with the presence of a crystal-inscripted _mihrab_, _Alrraye_ truly was ‘The Splendid one’, the most beautiful mosque between all the places of kneeling in Agrabah. And the last stop in this hurriedly conceived tour of the city.

It was built during the reign of Abbas ibn-Yahya-ibn Tariq-ibn al-Azur Bobolonius, one of the greatest squanderer of the dark ages of Agrabah, when the empire and dinasty of the Boboloni had been about to collapse on itself, under the sheer force of the self-destructive, sinful behavior of its rulers.

As Jasmine learned from the books in the palace library that she frequently visited due to interest and – alas- boredom, Abbas had been quite the peculiar sovereign: not only did he ask for loans constantly, he had also switched omegas at least fifteen times before finally settling in with only one of them; he had also allowed his people to starve so he could build luxurious mansions, madrasas and mosques around the city, which had to thank Abbas' incapacity to keep his pocket closed and his talent in architecture for the wonderful arrangement of its urban setting.

_Alrraye_ had been his last project and his most ambitious one, the architecture of the holy place of worship designed by none other than himself, but unfortunately he was only able to witness the placing of the founding stone – where now rised the _mihrab_ – during a public ceremony (that was rumored to be so expensive, so sinfully opulent, that his late widow queen had been forced to beg the surrounding countries - and her own beloved brother -for financial help as the treasury of the kingdom had been so bare that even her children and herself were starving to death) where he was brutally murdered by an insane street dweller, whose house had been destroyed to make place for the new Mosque.

The Sultan had died at the first stab of the man's machete, which reached his heart immediately, while the subject died slowly and painfully, under the cruel lashes of the merciless whip of the so called justice, his back reduced to a pulp of bloody flesh.

What a distasteful beginning for something as beautiful and as holy as 'the Splendid One'.

But, hopefully, its story would prove a great source of entertainment for Jasmine's mysterious, well-read cousin who - as Jasmine was starting to slowly learn - seemed to have a soft spot for history and its most crude expressions.

She peeked out of the gurney's curtains, reprimanding herself mentally as she covered her face with the veil when her head set out of the carriage to the view of the now evacuated street, to look in the direction of the canopy following close behind them, in which Tuhain , who had ordered the clearing out, was being transported.

That man, truly...

He had rather caught her by surprise that morning, when – at breakfast – he interrupted their mutual silence by asking her to chaperon him throughout the streets of the city. They had been sitting alone at the breakfast table, in the dining room she usually shared with Jafar and her Baba (the former a disappeared traitor and the latter too busy over feigning indignation towards Jasmine’s behavior the previous night to condescend to her presence), drinking a scorching hot tea, in front of two silver plates filled with fresh and dried fruit, goat cheese and honey, when her eyes - still sore and heavy with bags from the weeping of the night before - raised to those of the Sultan of Sherabad and asked the man to repeat himself.

Eternally amused, forever entertained, Tuhain had put on what Jasmine assumed was his best smile (highly seductive, she had to admit) and said:

“I’m afraid that, however splendid the spaces of Agrabah’s palace must be and for how intrinsically charming the differences between Sherabadian and Agrabean architecture surely are, there is nothing that could truly teach me more about my Aunt’s beloved home than the city itself. Would you accompany me in this quest for knowledge?”

“Sure.”, was all that Jasmine replied, at a loss for words- the both of them still capable of hearing the rustling behind the heavy doors of the courtyard they were in, Hakim's commanding voice in a close proximity.

To be truthful, she hadn’t expected him to actually be interested in anything at all; she believed his smug of superiority and the words of the night before had told them enough about his character... and so hearing him say that he wanted to learn more about the city, after being scolded the night before by the man who was still standing behind the dining room’s doors issuing orders for wanting to do the exact same thing - her father - came as a much-welcomed and genuine surprise to her.

She had excused herself to her rooms, where she enthusiastically told Dalia to switch attires for their plans had changed: they were going to take a stroll through the city.

Dalia, as supportive as she always was to her Princess, welcomed the change with a big smile and started preparing the new clothes. She lay out layers and layers of cloth, so they could dress both comfortably and appropriately only to find out when they were ready that Tuhain had prepared two enclosed gurneys for them and made the streets be evacuated by the usual lively atmosphere (banning any form of social gathering for the day as well as any type of outdoor work) so they could take a stroll ‘without being bothered by the commons’.

It also turned out that Tuhain’s idea of a lovely morning promenade consisted in visiting all the places of kneeling in the city, as he wished to learn more about the 'life of the distinguished' and the history of the Kingdom of Agrabah.

Which, mind you, Jasmine also enjoyed.

Not only was she a lover of architecture but in the few occasions she could speak alone with the imams and the clergy about theological matters, she had always discussed profusely about such fascinating subjects.

She just didn’t think that hanging with the clergy, hearing about every single detail and history of any mosque in the city, or with no one at all was really effective in learning more about the everyday life of a city. What could a building tell you without the people who frequented it?

But she was starting to think that she and her cousin had very different opinions about the nature of a kingdom.

Anyhow, the fresh smell of the seaside and the wood of the strong stilts of _Alrraye_ told Jasmine that they had finally arrived.

The gurney was placed down on the ground with a heavy thud and their haulers gave both Dalia and Jasmine time to prepare theirselves before someone came over to lift the curtains and help them out. They were dressed plainly, despite the layers o their skins: Jasmine's usual dress had been swapped with a simple linen tunic, which was hid under another red tunic held in place by a golden belt (the only refined accessory), which in turn was covered by a reddish body-length scarf and topped with a white _khimar_, while Dalia had preferred for herself a plain blue _chador_, encasing her full body.

Tuhain was already way ahead of them, in front of the Great Portal of the Mosque, taking in the scent of the sea, as his perfectly arranged pastel blue garments matched with the cerulean color of the water and the sky. He looked like a creature of Heaven, surrounded by the sunlight and the vastity of a now empty street - and Jasmine briefly wondered if this kingly appearance, almost supernatural, was part of the allure her cousin seemed to be able to exercise on the powerful of Agrabah.

As they approached the man and his two guards, Jasmine’s cousin turned to the pair and said:

“My dear cousin, would you like to take a stroll by the edges of the harbor alone with me? Sherabad is enclosed by sand and before we head to _Alrraye_ for the midday _salat_ I’d fancy enjoying this new air coming from the sea.”

“Why the two of us?”, Jasmine replied, not understanding where the request came from. "I truly hope that our chit-chat has not troubled you through the duration of this tour. That is truly just how Dalia and I are.”, she added unevenly, not even bothering to fake real sentiment in her words.

“My dear cousin – and he said it once again, Allah, he felt so paternalistic – you have surely not caused me any trouble. It’s just that I would like to have a one on one talk between royals and I don’t think simple servants – my followers alike – are apt to listen to such matters.”

“I-“

“As you wish, Your Highness.”, Dalia stated as Jasmine turned to her, a look of shock in her eyes.

“What are you doing, Dalia?”, she whispered to her.

“Not everyone is a threat, al-Amira.”, Dalia said, “It might be an occasion to make a new friend out of your long lost cousin.”

“Dalia, I-“

“We will await for you here, my Sultan”, Dalia said with her usual cheerful voice, wearing her most genuine, contagious smile. “Let’s all show gratitude to Our Lord when you come back.”

“I look forward to it.”, was the reply that came from Tuhain – with an icy voice, now turned into a counterfeit.

***

They walked together in silence for what felt like days, browsing through the objects – the coins, the gallons, the freshly captured fish – that had been hastily left behind by the dwellers of the harbor that morning when Tuhain had ordered the streets to be cleared out, before Jasmine couldn’t take the heat anymore – as disaccustomed as she was to dwell through the city (and certainly not in such heavy garments) – and directed herself to a stool that was left in the marketplace, sat and removed her _khimar_, before reaching to a close water bottle and drinking from it, uncaring of who may have rested their lips upon its cap. Tuhain chuckled.

“I take you are not an etiquette enthusiast?”

“I beg your pardon?”, Jasmine asked, annoyed at the man.

“Well, you walk through dangerous streets, you bring home drifters from the city and rebuke your own father. And now here you are in a sea market, acting like this is the most familiar place in the world. Surely you must have scarce consideration for what is considered an acceptable princess-like conduct.”

“Yes, well,” Jasmine said, adjusting her garments while scratching her nose, just to further prove his point, “I’ve also been told I do not seem an enthusiast of femininity.”

Tuhain laughed in full now and when he was finished, he reached out for a stool for himself before placing it near Jasmine and sitting upon it.

“Yes, I have also heard that about you. However, you are not a woman so I don’t see how anyone could expect any different from you.”

“Oh, you have heard that about me? Surely your sleep must have been very light for you to hear the chatter of our court.", she replied, fidgeting with the seams in her dress, refusing to acknowledge his presence. "Is that why you wanted to spend some time alone with me, then, Dear Cousin? So you could take a better look at the hermaphroditic princess everyone seems to love talking about?”

That seemed to catch the Sultan off guard - finally, she would have liked to add - as he stopped with his petty attempt at gaining her attention by staring at her bent frame, detaching his face from Al-Amira's body and straightening his posture over the stool, moving away his garments from any spike that could be in it.

“Well-played.”, was all that Tuhain replied, before silence fell upon the two of them once again - Jasmine fidgeting with her dress and Tuhain looking straight on, to the end of the horizon.

“We should head back.”, Jasmine said after a while, finally raising her head, “The sun is almost at its peak and I don't want Dalia to keep waiting.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”, Tuhain told her, his gaze still strictly on the horizon. “I sincerely just wanted to know you better, that's why I asked questions around. After all, you are the daughter of my beloved Aunt, the princess of Agrabah and I meant to understand who I was dealing with.”

“You could have just come to me since the beginning, instead of staring or asking others.”

"I must apologize, preparing in advance is a habit of mine. Besides, I admit that the future Ruler of Agrabah intimidated me a little bit. You didn't seem keen of spending your time with any foreigner."

"Ruler?", a confused Jasmine asked.

“Why, yes. You surely do not think that any of the princes you end up marrying would know what’s best for Agrabah more than you do.”

“No, I do not believe it.", she replied, skeptical of her cousin's straightforwardness. "But," she continued, "as my father undoubtedly informed you, ruling is forbidden to women in Agrabah.”

“In Sherabad, too.”, Tuhain said, “But as I already stated, you are not just any woman. You are a princess and you are an Alpha. Most girls like you end up brutally murdered by their infanticidal, ignorant, peasant parents and yet here you are. How lucky is Agrabah’s fate! She could have been stuck with a foreign, naive ruler were you have been born an omega, yet she can rest assured. She will be taken care of by a strong, alpha Sultana.”

“I do not understand.”, Jasmine replied, her voice slightly raising. “I would have thought you to believe me a horrid creature, only meant to be looked upon as if I was a circus’ beast, considering the way you spoke about my father’s aid, and yet here you are: asking me out over a city you seem uninterested in – as you do not wish to mingle with its people – praising my strength and virtues as if you knew me. Do you find your contradictions amusing or are you just provoking me? What is your game?”

“Ha! I see you have heard my conversations with the Sultan yesterday night.”, he said somewhat smugly.

He probably was expecting Jasmine to admit she had been spying on him too or have her feel embarrassed by it.

How presumptuous.

He continued nonetheless.

“You are right: I have been very crude. And vulgar. And for that again, I feel I must apologize. That is not me. However, it is true the fact that I find the act of provoking an amusing time killer. Not with you, though. You are a fellow royal, my cousin, and I would never dare to mock you, nor insult you. I truly just wished to know you better. I’m afraid my teasing persona, though, cannot cease to show itself whomever I speak to.”

“Again,”, Jasmine says, unimpressed with his excuses, “Is there something you'd like to tell me? If not, I will take my leave.”

The Sherabadian Sultan’s smile dropped then and al-Amira saw him assuming the same expressionless face he put on in front of Dalia just a couple of moments ago.

“Jasmine,” he started off by calling her with her name for the very first time, “I do realize you do not know me but I see no reason why you would think I’d be lying to you. I have no secret motif. I do respect you and I do think you are full of potential; it’s as if you had some sort of aura around you, that exudes charisma, and I can feel it, even though your father seems too preoccupied with that hermaphrodite of his to notice the royalty in your eyes.”

“Please, stop talking as if you knew me. Yours are kind words and yet I have been taught to be wary of sycophants a long time ago."

She paused then and finally looked at him in the eyes, before continuing with her interrogation.

"You keep referring to Jafar as ‘that hermaphrodite’, ‘that wretched creature’. How do you expect me to believe your obsequious words when you refer to my kind as if we were freaks?”

“Ah, but he is not your kind, is he not? Even that girl you always accompany yourself with. They are not your equal - no one better than I can assure you what treacherous, sleek and basic thoughts lie behind the polished facade of a pauper. You can tame a tiger and treat it like a cat, but it will always be a beast. You can save the destitute from misery, cover them in silk and luxury, but they’re destined to remain helpless, wretched creatures at their core. You should learn to be wary of them, not only flatterers.”

“ And what exactly would a person who so clearly despises the common be able to tell me about them?", Jasmine said as she finally stood up and made to leave, having had enough,"You do not even know Dalia.” 

“But I know the heart of that fake man.”, he called out after her. “And I see him in your eyes as desire and longing fills them.”

Jasmine stopped and turned to look at him, enraged. How dare he. How would he even know-

“Do not be surprised, my dear cousin.”, Tuhain said in a sweet, reassuring voice, “Rumors easily fill the environment of a court and when you have had your fair amount of experience, you learn to discriminate between truth and gossip.”

He raised from the stool and reached the Princess, before placing his hand over her hair and tousling it as a brother would do to his younger sibling.

“Do not worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Jasmine was about to rebuke him when a violent shake had them both falling over their backs.

As they struggled to retain composure and get up, they both saw in the distance what appeared to be an elephant, before hearing the sounds of an approaching crowd, cheering and chanting.

“Make way for Prince Ali!”, they all sang in a chorus, “Say Hey! It’s Prince Ali!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary  
* Alrraye = the splendid one  
* sahn= a courtyard in Islamic architecture. Most traditional mosques have a large central sahn, which is surrounded by a riwaq or arcade on all sides. In traditional Islamic design, residences and neighborhoods can have private sahn  
* mihrab= a semicircular niche in the wall of a mosque that indicates the qibla, that is, the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca and hence the direction that Muslims should face when praying  
* salat= prayer  
* khimar= a type of veil  
* chador= a type of veil

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is basically an introduction chapter, the next one will introduce our characters properly, hope you will stay tuned!


End file.
